Valkyrie
by los.kav
Summary: When a young woman goes missing in Amsterdam, Tintin finds himself teaming up with an old enemy to find her. With everyone hiding something, where can the truth be found? AU - Modern!Tintin. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Tintin does not belong to me. Neither does Dr Müller or Captain Haddock or any other character associated with Hergé and the Hergé foundation. This story is for recreational purposes and should not be taken rectally. I'm also really curious to know if anyone reads the disclaimers, 'cos I don't. **

**Warning****: This story contains bad language, violence, and scenes of a sexual nature. Also, even though it's in the Tintin After Dark section, it contains absolutely no Tintin-sex at all. It's just here for bad language and dark subject matter.**

**This story is set in the aftermath of Alph-Art, which can be found on this site in the main Tintin archive, or on my author's page. **

* * *

**One**

_People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. - _Oscar Wilde

* * *

Georgia knew she was beautiful. She'd been assured of it all her life but it was only now, at age twenty, that she knew it to be true. To compare the tall, willowy blonde to older photographs cast doubt on any former declarations of beauty: she had been skinny and gawky; and her dull, mousy-coloured hair of old lacked its present sparkle. But now she was sure she had it right.

Her brother, Daniel – Dan (or Danny) to his friends – didn't think so. He eyed her as she preened in the mirror. They were spending the summer on their Aunt's houseboat. Hillary, their Aunt, was an _'artist'_ who had relocated to Holland many years ago, when Danny and Georgia were very young, to pursue her artistic dreams and live a bohemian lifestyle. Now, on the wrong side of forty-five, her chic bo-ho life seemed – to Danny at least – to consist of sitting around smoking pot and complaining about the commercialisation of contemporary art, or selling home-made tat in the flea markets.

"How do I look?" Georgia asked. She smoothed the velvety material of her short, blue dress across her flat belly.

"Cheap," Danny snapped. He was sick of her. They had to share a bedroom here and he was sick of her increasingly bad behaviour: coming home at two, three, even four o'clock in the morning; waking him up; getting sick; laughing at his anger… Aunt Hill seemed blind to it, and was doing nothing to rein in the young woman.

In fact, Aunt Hill seemed to regard his complaints as an insult. He'd tried to speak to her about Georgia's actions, but his Aunt had flipped out and started talking about society's perceptions of women, and how such behaviour was encouraged in young men, but frowned on in women. She'd continued in this vein for about a half an hour, until Danny had got bored of listening to her and gone out for a walk instead.

Georgia laughed at his insult, but her ears turned red: a sure sign that his comment had upset her. "Like I care what you think," she said, trying to make her voice light. "You're so boring. We've been here two weeks and I bet you haven't got off with a single girl. In fact, I bet you haven't even _kissed_ anyone yet." She stole a sly glance at his face and saw that she was right. "God!" she said scornfully. "You're so pathetic. You're sixteen going on sixty."

"Oh, shut up."

"Or else you're gay," she added as an afterthought.

"No I'm not! Shut up!"

"Aww!" She pouted at him mockingly, pushing her plump, lower lip out. "Don't worry: I'm sure you'll meet your Prince Charming."

"_Shut up!"_

"Come out with me and prove me wrong." She turned back to the mirror and teased a few strands of hair into a more pleasing position.

"No," he said sulkily.

"Fine. Stay here, Mr Boring. Better get into your pyjamas and tuck yourself in nice and tight. Boring bastard. This is the opportunity of a life-time: most sixteen year olds would _kill_ for a holiday in Amsterdam without their parents."

"Georgie, they're splitting up!" he cried. "You don't seem to care at all."

"No, I don't care," she said flatly. She brushed by him and retrieved her handbag from where it lay, discarded behind the sofa in the tiny living quarters. "And you're wrong: they're not splitting up. They just want some time alone, away from us."

"Are you mental? I'm in boarding school and you were away for your first year of university! They've just had almost nine months away from us!"

They were splitting up: Danny knew it instinctively. His mother had become more and more unhappy and Dad was spending all his time 'working late' in London, which was adult code for sleeping with his fit, young secretary. Who wasn't even all that fit, if Danny was honest. She just had big tits and was younger than Mum. She was also as thick as two short planks.

Georgie opened the door to the deck and paused, looking back over her shoulder at her unhappy brother. "Please come out," she said. "I'll buy your drinks and everything. The girls here are total slags: you'll definitely pull."

He rolled his eyes. _As if I care about that. _"Maybe later," he said grudgingly.

She grinned at him. "I'll be at the café until around nine o'clock. You know the one? The cool one near where Aunt Hill buys her weed? You'll have fun, I swear. I'm meeting Veltje and her mates again. You'll like them: they're a right laugh."

"Alright," he said with a sigh.

"You'll come?" Georgie's face brightened and Danny thought she looked a bit pretty as her natural good humour broke through the many layers of make-up and fake tan. Usually he thought she looked like a mildly retarded Oompa-Loompa.

"I'm not promising anything," he warned, but she ignored his tone and breezed on, convinced of his intent to have a night out for once.

"Text me when you're on the way," she said cheerfully, and left.

He waited a few minutes before going out on deck. It was painted bright green and looked garish. Georgie had already disappeared into the crowd – it was always busy here in the evenings, with joggers and dog-walkers and people out for a leisurely stroll. He leaned against the rail and took it all in.

Amsterdam was fine. Well, that was an understatement: it was a beautiful city. But he didn't want to be here when he _knew_ things were going on at home – important things that affected him and would shape his immediate future. It wasn't fair: he should have a say in what was happening. He should get the chance to tell his parents how he felt; to tell his mother to grow a set of nuts and stop being such a doormat; to tell his dad to man up to his responsibilities and dump the idiot secretary.

When his parents had announced the plan – that Georgie and he were to go away for the whole summer – he'd fought against it. Aunt Hill was great, but only in small doses. When she came to visit them in at their house in Kensington Danny loved hanging out with her. She always had interesting ideas about how to pass the time. They'd sit in the park and eat ice-cream and she'd teach him about philosophy and political ideology. They'd tour the museums and see the paintings and the exhibits in the British Library and the Natural History Museum. They'd go to pavement cafés and watch the street performers. She'd even brought him and Georgie to Shakespeare in the Park one year, which had been great fun (if a little baffling, but Aunt Hill said that about 20% of all of Shakespeare was total bollocks: nonsensical rhymes to keep the dialogue flowing naturally).

Aunt Hill was brilliant… for an afternoon. At most, an afternoon and an evening. Six weeks? Too much!

As soon as Danny had been told about the plan he'd gone to work on his dad, and petitioned to go to Belgium instead. Aunt Hill was his mother's sister, but his dad had a brother in Belgium: a retired sea captain named Archibald. They hadn't spoken for years, but they sent each other Christmas cards. The big draw for Danny, though, was the fact that his unknown uncle was Tintin's guardian, and Danny was a big fan of Tintin.

_It must be brilliant,_ he thought, _having no parents and travelling all over the world. _

Tintin had _lived_. He'd experienced everything Aunt Hill spoke about. Aunt Hill and her beatnik friends spoke in romantic, glowing terms about the ideology of Mikhail Bakunin and Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, but Tintin had been to communist countries like Borduria and China: his opinions would be worth hearing, and would be more valid – more relevant – than Aunt Hill's. Aunt Hill thought commercialism was wrong, and that corporations were the enemy: Tintin fought for human rights and basic civil liberties that had been steamrolled by communist dictators.

After a while, it had seemed like his dad would capitulate. He mentioned that he'd phoned Danny's uncle, but then some stuff had happened with Tintin at the start of the summer and the idea had been flatly refused: Archie would have too much on his plate to deal with already and he didn't need another teenager hanging around his house like a spare part. And that was that: Danny was sent off to Amsterdam and now he was stuck here for another month.

Which freaking _sucked!_

**x**

Dr Jörn Müller was pleased, though he didn't show it. It wouldn't do to show these people how much he wanted their merchandise: they would simply jack the prices up and he didn't want to pay more than he had to. After all, he was running a business and for a business to be profitable one had to make more money than one spent. Nobody ever got rich by spending over the odds, and the merchandise had a shelf-life of only a few years.

He took another look through the photographs, this time with a more critical eye. "She's too old," he said, tossing one photo aside. "This one looks like a junkie: too frail. How old is this one?"

The fat Dutchman, Van Sant, sat forward and studied the photograph Müller held up. "Twelve," he said at last, "but she has a sister, fourteen, who's just as beautiful."

"Hmm. Perhaps I can find a place for them." Sisters were good: they tended to be a big draw to a certain type of deviant. "This one: he's is lovely but his eyes are insolent."

"He's been broken since that photo was taken," Van Sant offered. "He's quite tame and very obedient now."

"How does she perform?" Müller had moved on, and waved another photo at Van Sant. It was of a teenage girl with dusky skin and an almost Jewish look to her face. Her eyes were exquisite, even in fear. He had half a mind to keep her for himself, and fuck the jew out of her.

"Aahh, my personal favourite!" Van Sant took the photograph and stared at it wistfully. "She is shy in front of people, but pleasing one-on-one. And I can personally vouch for the tightness of her pussy."

Müller shelved the idea of keeping her for himself: he didn't like the idea of putting his cock in any hole Van Sant had already been in. The Dutchman was riddled with disease.

Most of the girls had come from Eastern Europe, from places like Romania and Syldavia and Borduria. They were under the impression that the kind people helping them move to a better life in central Europe would help them find good, honest jobs and nice places to stay. In reality they were smuggled in for prostitution and slavery. They were kept in houses and flats all over the cities, locked inside rooms and watched constantly on closed circuit television by burly men with guns. They were moved constantly, and at the drop of a hat, depending on the whims and paranoia of the men that owned them.

The easiest way to keep them under control was to feed them drugs. Heroin worked well, and the girls were usually so frightened and hopeless that they started to crave the drug pretty quickly, seeking a release from the harsh nightmare their lives had become. It was used as a reward too, and withheld if they didn't cooperate and do as they were told. After a few days of going cold-turkey they were begging for mercy and a hit, and promising to do everything they were asked. Within a few weeks most would do anything for a hit, and were so caught up with their addiction that escape was far from their thoughts.

Müller used drugs too, but he had his education to fall back on. He'd been a psychologist once upon a time, and a damned good one too. He understood the human mind and human nature. By the time the stock came to him they were badly beaten and broken and filled with despair. After months of rough treatment and fear, kind words and gentle touches were worth more than raised voices and violence. And they responded to it: they were pathetically grateful to him. It was pitiful but effective, and it built into a twisted sort of loyalty – almost love, if that word meant anything in this business. They were so determined to stay with him, where it was safe compared to where they had just come from, that they would do anything to please him.

Yes, a little psychology and – dare he say it? – _brainwashing_ worked wonders.

"I'll take them," he said, sliding the photographs back over to Van Sant. He'd have them all, even the faulty ones. He could sell anything, given the right buyer.

"That's why I like to meet with you, my friend." Van Sant tipped him a salacious wink. "You are a generous and clever man, and your discerning eye can see quality at once." He wrote something down on the back of a small piece of card about the same shape and size as a business card, and slid it over to Müller. "Here is the price."

Müller looked at the figure and snorted. "I don't shit money," he said tersely, "and I'm not hard up for stock. Try again."

Van Sant grinned. He'd chanced his arm with the severe German – no harm, no foul – and had expected to be rebuked. "Half it," he said generously.

Müller thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Bring them to the usual place." He held out his hand and Ivan, his trusted second in command, handed him a briefcase. He opened it and took out almost half of the stacked bills, piling them neatly on the table. Van Sant shook his hand and Müller left shortly after. The Dutchman was crass, but he wasn't so vulgar as to count the cash in front of Müller. He had some sense, at least.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Am I the only person that thinks Müller would look at home in a sex dungeon? Y'know, with his jodhpurs and his riding crops and his random German swearing? No? Just me? Fair enough so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

****_Nobody can go back and make a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending. - _Maria Robinson

* * *

Danny hadn't come out. _Boring bastard,_ Georgia had thought. She'd tried texting him, but he hadn't answered, and when she'd tried to phone him it had gone straight to voice-mail. She pushed it to the back of her mind and focused instead on Veltje and her crowd of friends.

Veltje was very beautiful, with dark blonde hair that was currently plaited into thick dreadlocks. With her short skirt and handkerchief-like top that showed bare back and stopped above her midriff, she looked like a glamorous female gladiator or some kind of statuesque Amazonian goddess. She was twenty two and, to Georgie's young eyes, she was a bastion of knowledge, sophistication and cool.

Her friends were similarly cool; oozing flair and panache in equal measures. They ordered shots with ease and downed them like adults. Back home, when Georgie was out with her friends from University, all shots were accompanied by loud squeals and giggling, and there was definite arm-flailing as the strong alcohol burned down their throats. Here, she wisely avoided doing that and endeavoured to appear more adult-like.

Jorge, one of Veltje's friends, was angrily ranting about… something. The Middle East, maybe. One of those fucked up third world countries where the rich lived like kings and everyone else squatted in the gutter like peasants from a Monty Python film. She made a mental note to ask Danny about it the next day: he usually knew all of that boring crap.

Veltje leaned forward and tapped Georgie on the back of the hand with one long, slim finger. "Hey," she shouted over the pulsing music, "do you want to meet the owner of this club? He's a pretty cool guy. Very hot."

"Oh, he'll blow your mind," Katrien agreed. She was a serious looking girl with dark brown hair and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses that made her look very cool and very intelligent.

They were in a nightclub called _Valkyrie,_ which was _the_ coolest club in Amsterdam that summer. The inside of it looked like a warehouse, with beaten sheet metal on the walls and rusted, pockmarked metal bars and fixtures. The staff all wore black and looked bored, and there were private rooms upstairs. Georgie was curious about them, but hadn't got the nerve to ask what was up there. She'd seen men and women going up there all night, and returning with a swagger and a smug smile. There were even drugs being sold here – openly. And not the legal highs common to the rest of the city's legal purveyors, but harder stuff like coke and speed.

To be introduced to the owner was a great honour, and it gave Georgie a thrill to know that her new friends were so well connected.

Veltje led her around the long, curved bar and into a corridor behind a set of swinging doors. "He's a doctor," Veltje explained. "Or rather, he was. He's been all over the world. He's so cultured and urbane, you know? But really nice. He can be strange at first, but once you get to know him he's amazing. Very charismatic and charming. I'm fucking him. Don't tell Rae." Rae was Veltje's on-again, off-again boyfriend, and Jorge's older brother.

"I won't," Georgie promised.

They went up a set of bare stairs that led to a plain, metal door. Veltje paused with her hand on the door handle. "Be polite," she continued in a whisper, "but don't be stupid. He can't stand stupid women. He prefers women with a bit of fire, no? Just don't cross the line into rudeness. He has a temper and he always carries a gun.

Georgie's legs began to shake as Veltje opened the door and breezed into the office beyond.

"So the beautiful Veltje graces me with her presence at last?" a man's voice said. Following Veltje inside, Georgie saw a tall, slender man reclining on an office chair. He wore an immaculately cut, tailored suit of dark black with a lighter grey shirt. The shirt was open at the throat with no tie, showing sparse black chest hair that almost seemed to stretch up to join his neatly trimmed black beard. He was bald, but it wasn't unattractive. He looked like the kind of man that had taken one look at his receding hairline and simply shaved the rest off instead of battling with vanity and opting for a wig or a ridiculous comb-over.

His feet were up, resting on the long desk that lined the far wall. Above the desk was a wall of screens, each showing a different view of the inside and outside of the club: the live feed of the discreet CCTV cameras that were hidden all over _Valkyrie_. He turned his head and smiled at both of them, showing Georgie his icy blue eyes and a crooked nose that had been broken at least once. He scanned Georgie detachedly. "And who might you be?"

Georgie walked over to him, her heart thumping in her chest, and held out her hand. As she opened her mouth, repressed memories of people making fun of her surname swum to the forefront of her mind. _Don't say Haddock!_ her mind screamed at her. _Don't say Haddock! Don't say Haddock! Don't say Haddock! _"Georgie Ha" – _Don't say Haddock! – _"ancock," she said smoothly. "My name is Georgie Hancock."

"Georgie Hancock," the man repeated. He smiled, amused by her nerves, and shook her hand politely. "My name is Jörn Müller. Veltje has no doubt told you about me. All lies, I can assure you," he added with a wink.

"Oh? So you're not charismatic and charming?" Georgie asked with a wicked grin. "Well, I'm very sorry to hear that."

Müller laughed delightedly. "I like her, Veltje," he said. "I like her a lot! Tell me, Georgie Hancock, what brings you to Holland? Please, take a seat." He gestured to a deep leather sofa that was near the desk and she sat down, perching on the edge. "Where are my manners?" he asked with a sigh. "Would you like a drink?"

"A glass of white wine would be lovely," Georgie lowered her head slightly and looked up at him from under her lashes. It made her look innocent, yet seductive: a trick she'd picked up from watching old videos of Princess Diana.

"Veltje, fetch it for our friend."

Veltje glared at him. "You have staff for that," she said pointedly.

He turned and pinned her with his cold stare. "Fetch her a glass of white wine, Veltje," he said silkily. Veltje stood for a moment or two, debating the wisdom of defying him. Then she smiled brightly and nodded. "Of course," she said. When she left, she had to stop herself from slamming the door.

Georgie wasn't sure what had just happened, but she could guess: Veltje was jealous of the attention the doctor was paying her. _Tough luck, Veltje,_ she thought grimly.

"So what brings you here?" Müller repeated. He took his feet off the desk and swivelled his chair around to face her.

She shrugged. "I just thought I'd get away for the summer," she lied, hoping her voice was casual and breezy. "You know what London's like."

"Ah, you're from London?"

"Yes, but I'm in Cambridge University at the moment. I'm reading law."

He raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. "I see. How far along are you?"

"I've just finished my first year."

"Well done, Georgie Hancock. They say the first year is the hardest."

"Are they telling the truth?"

He shrugged. "Who can tell? I'm sure it's different for everyone. I studied medicine, and my first year of residency was much worse than my first year of medical school."

"Oh, yes. Veltje said you are a psychologist." Georgie feigned interest very well: a handsome doctor was a much better holiday conquest than a scuzzy waiter in Ibiza.

"Once, perhaps," he said guardedly. "Now, I prefer to see life instead of madness. What do you think of my nightclub, Georgie Hancock?"

"I love it," she said enthusiastically. "My dad used to tell me stories about the old Manchester rave scene. It's exactly as I imagined the _Hacienda _to be."

He laughed. "At last! A beautiful woman that knows about something other than fashion and makeup. I hope, Georgie Hancock, that we will be great friends."

She smiled shyly at him, her dimples deepening "So," she said coyly, as Veltje returned with a glass of wine, "you're a handsome doctor. Tell me about that."

Unseen by Georgie, Veltje winked at Müller, her eyes flicking towards the glass of wine as the other girl reached for it. It was drugged, Müller knew. Georgie would drink it and wake up far from here, disorientated and scared and ready to begin her new life. That was Veltje's job: to lure them in for him to deal with. Granted, his operation was smaller than the Dutchman, Van Sant's, but he was only starting out and was eager to expand it whenever he could.

But there was something about Georgie Hancock. Something special. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also smart. Intelligent. It was raw, untempered; but it was there: that spark of light that set her apart from common whores like Veltje. He could educate Georgie; shape and mould her and teach her things that were beyond Veltje's understanding. He watched as she took the wine from Veltje and toasted him.

"Cheers," she said with a wink.

"Don't drink that." The words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. _Don't be a fool!_ his mind shouted at him. He ignored the inner voice and stood up and took the wine from her. He dropped it, glass and all, into the steel bin beside the door.

"What are you doing?" Veltje hissed.

"Go away," he whispered back.

"What?" she asked loudly.

"Go back to your friends, Veltje." He opened the door and pushed her out. "Go on. I'll speak to you later."

"No! You can't. Jörn _please!"_

He shut the door in her face and smiled brightly at Georgie, who was looking a little scared and a lot confused. "The wine here is swill," he explained, "and I wish to get to know you better."

"Oh," she replied, still nervous. She watched as he went to a filing cabinet and opened the middle drawer. He pulled out a dark coloured glass bottle.

"Strawberry tequila," he said with a grin. "Drink with me?"

"I'd love to," she replied.

**x**

She got home the next morning at nine. She hadn't meant to be so late, but the night had gotten away from her. They'd each sampled only one shot from the bottle of tequila, but even without it they'd sat talking for hours. He was amazing. He was so intelligent and charming, and his voice was like honey. She could listen to him talk for hours, and she had. At six in the morning the club closed, and he'd tried to call her a taxi but she'd insisted on staying with him. It hadn't taken much to convince him to let her stay, and he was pleased to continue their conversation while he counted up the night's takings. They'd had to wait until the early-morning cleaning crew had arrived, and then – of course – he'd had to take her to breakfast.

Now, he had just pulled up outside Aunt Hill's houseboat. He drove a red Jaguar and she loved it. It was sleek and beautiful and spoke of success and excess. It was the perfect carriage for her. By the time she'd managed to get her seatbelt off, Jörn was out of his seat and around to open her door for her. She smiled up at him and took his hand, letting him pull her up.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I had a lovely night."

"And thank you for lying: I'm sure you must have been bored."

"Not at all," she said sincerely.

"Let me make up for it," he said. "Let me take you out to dinner tonight, yes?"

"I'd love to," she replied eagerly.

"Good. I'll pick you up here at eight o'clock this evening. Dress up." He tipped her a wink and kissed her on the cheek. She leant in to him slightly and they stayed like that for a half a second, and for a moment he felt like he wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her properly. _You fool!_ his head screamed. _What are you doing?_ "I'll see you tonight," he said as he pulled away.

"Tonight," she agreed. She stepped away from the car and nodded at him. He got back in to the driver's seat and watched as she turned away and hurried onto the boat. At the front door she stopped, looked back and waved. He waved back and felt himself starting to grin like an idiot. _You fool! Drive away!_ He shook his head as he floored the car and tore off. He wasn't quite sure what had happened, but he was pretty sure there was a good chance he was going to get laid.

**x**

People change. It happened all the time. Sometimes, the change was gradual; slow, so that you'd hardly even notice it. Other times it happened quickly, and was so sudden that it hit you like a brick to the face. It was just life: babies become toddlers, and soon started walking and talking and asking questions. They pushed; they explored; they viewed everything as a new-found delight and as a great discovery. As they got older they learned to talk back and question the answers they were given. By the time they reached adulthood they'd learned not to question, not to pry, just in case they upset the status quo.

At least, _most_ of them did. Some people continued to question, to pry. They were the ones that were never satisfied with the standard, stock answers or the all-encompassing "Because; That's Why". They had to know the real reasons why: to see it from every angle until it was striped bare and laid open for dissection. They wondered why nobody else was as curious as they were, and harboured a secret disgust for people content to live in a society they didn't really know; to follow lows they didn't really understand.

That's what Captain Haddock thought, anyway.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in time to the beat as he hummed along to the radio – and old song by _Rush_ – and let his mind wander to distract him from his nerves. Beside him, in the passenger seat, the white wire-haired fox-terrier, Snowy, continued licking his balls. Usually, the Captain would poke the dog until he stopped – the noise of it was just _foul_ – but he figured he'd get a better laugh when Tintin got back into the car and Snowy licked his face in welcome.

The Captain was worried; Snowy was just being gross.

_Worried _wasn't really an emotion the Captain did. Bloody annoyed and terrified he could do quite well (the next person that suggested going in to space was going to get it: he'd crap bricks and build a fortress to hide in), along with stubborn and passionate, but he never _really_ had the time to be worried. It was an emotion that was surplus to his requirements. Besides, your definition of 'worry' changed once you come close to being shipwrecked in shark-infested waters or stranded on the moon with a dwindling supply of oxygen.

He was parked in one of the few spaces available outside Doctor Rotule's surgery in Mulinsart village. Tintin was inside, finally getting the cast off his wrist. The Captain didn't like waiting rooms. He didn't mind illness, or even death: he just didn't like the people in waiting rooms. There was always one old woman that spoke loudly and at great length about her hysterectomy, or a young man that stank of booze with a broken nose and a sheepish expression on his face, or a young mother that ignored her loud, snot-nosed, bratty child, and the Captain always seemed to end up getting stuck with them.

Snowy raised his head and looked at the Captain with intelligent, black eyes. "What?" the Captain asked. Snowy wagged his stubby tail politely.

"What do you want?"

Hidden in those four, innocuous words was a trigger. Snowy lunged, jumping over the gear stick to land on the Captain's lap. He then started to lick any patch of skin he could find that wasn't covered in thick, black beard.

"Ah! You little macrocephalic baboon! Get off me!"

They continued wrestling in this fashion for a few short moments, with Snowy growing wilder and wilder with excitement every time the Captain tried to push him away, until the dog looked out the window and saw the surgery door open. He stilled at once, his ears flicked forward alertly, as Tintin left the surgery and walked towards the car. The blue, light-weight cast he'd been wearing on his left arm for the last four weeks was gone, the Captain noticed, and he was folding what looked to be a prescription of some sort.

That was a good sign.

Tintin opened the passenger door and slid into the car. As soon as he was sitting down Snowy trampled the Captain in his haste to get to his master.

"Ah! _Thundering typhoons!"_ The Captain curled up protectively.

"Are you alright?" Tintin asked as the fended off Snowy's frantic welcome.

"He just trod on my barnacles! Little sod. I'll smite him one of these days. I'll wait 'till he's asleep and flick him in his little doggy nuts, see how he likes it." The Captain put his seatbelt back on and waited for Tintin to do the same before he continued. "What about you? What did the doctor say?"

Tintin flexed his arm carefully. "He said it was healing fine. I may have some pain for a while, though, because I haven't used it in so long. He just said I had to be careful."

"Good. And, er, the other thing?"

Tintin shrugged. "He said it was normal."

"Normal?" the Captain asked, incredulous.

"Yes: normal. He said after everything that happened recently he wasn't surprised that I'm having a bit of trouble sleeping."

"It's more than 'a bit of trouble'," the Captain snapped. "You haven't slept in at least a month."

"Don't be so dramatic," Tintin said, rolling his eyes. "It's medically impossible for someone to go without sleep for anything longer than a week. Any longer than that and the body just shuts down and they die."

"Blistering barnacles!"

"Clearly I'm not dead," Tintin continued, "so I _am_ getting some sleep."

"An hour or two here and there doesn't count!"

"He said it was to be expected. But I'm young enough that it will sort itself out in time."

"How much time?" the Captain demanded. "You can't go on like this: it isn't healthy."

"Soon," Tintin said soothingly.

The Captain started the car, his hand movements curt in his annoyance. "I hope he gave you some sleeping pills."

Tintin looked sheepish, but didn't reply.

The Captain turned the engine off again and stared at him. "Tell me he gave you _something_ to help you sleep."

"He offered, but I didn't want to take them," Tintin admitted.

The Captain closed his eyes and concentrated hard on his breathing until the urge to shout had passed. "Tintin. _You're not sleeping," _he said as patiently as he could manage.

"You know I don't like taking stuff like that," Tintin said defensively.

"But it will _help. You. Sleep!"_

"It will knock me out for hours on end! If something happens…"

"What? What will happen?"

"Anything could happen!" He ignored the Captain's impatient snort and continued. "The house could catch fire. We could have a break in. You or the professor could have a heart attack. I'd be useless: I'd be passed out and not able to get help or even save myself."

"I swear to you: nothing bad is going to happen," the Captain promised.

"You don't know that. Not for sure." Tintin avoided the Captain's gaze by focusing solely on Snowy, who sat tidily on Tintin's lap, enjoying the attention.

"We have an extensive alarm system. It's connected to the local police station. If the alarm goes off, they phone us. If we don't answer, they send a car over to check," the Captain said gently. "Every single part of the house has a fire alarm. You know Nestor checks them all religiously every week. I can vouch for them, Tintin: they're all working. And you know that Cuthbert has that little alarm-button-thingy. If anything happens – if he has a fall or whatever – he presses it and Nestor goes running."

"What about you?"

The Captain rolled his eyes. "I'm not even fifty, kid! What the hell are you doing worrying about me? I had my annual check-up and the doctor said I was fine. Better than fine. I haven't had a drink in… What? Five months? Six? I'm in better shape now than I was when I was twenty five." _Sodding Calculus: I'd like to smite him too._

Tintin said nothing, and continued to scratch Snowy behind the ears. With a sigh, the Captain let the subject go. He knew from experience that Tintin could be as stubborn as a mule, and pressing him on this would only lead to the lad withdrawing further. That was the last thing the Captain wanted. It was a miracle he'd opened up even this much. _If only he'd talk to me._

He started the car again and changed the subject. "So what's the prescription for?"

"Painkillers. For my arm."

"Fair enough. We'll get it filled and head home. Yes?"

"Yes. I think I might lie down for a bit," Tintin added tentatively. "When we get home. Have a nap or something."

"I think that's a good idea," the Captain agreed. He nosed the car carefully out of the parking lot and continued into Mulinsart town. He glanced over at Tintin once or twice, who was resolutely staring ahead. He'd lost some weight – not a huge amount, true, but enough that the Captain could notice it – and his skin was paler than usual. Heavy black bags circled his eyes. He didn't look well. Worry continued to gnaw at the pit of the Captain's stomach.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Starting off with two updates, because Tintin didn't appear until this chapter, and it felt like a bit of a swindle only putting up one chapter. This will be updated once a week probably. Hopefully. Anyway, enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

* * *

The Captain looked at the glass beaker suspiciously. Normally he tried to stay away from Professor Calculus's experiments, but he was cautiously optimistic about this one. It would, the Professor thought, cure the block on alcohol the Captain had developed six months ago – caused, the Captain had to note, by more of Calculus's fiddling. And although common sense and previous experience demanded that one keep a healthy distance between one's person and a Cuthbert Calculus Original Experiment, the Captain couldn't help bending down for a closer look.

A polite person would have said that the thick, gloopy mixture was the same colour as watered-down cider. "That looks like wee," the Captain said. He was rarely polite.

"I'd say another few days," Cuthbert said happily. He fiddled with the bunson burner under the beaker, turning up the heat. The liquid _bloop_-ed morosely.

"And this will work, will it?" the Captain asked as he straightened back up.

"Nonsense! It'll thin out over the flames and then you just drink it straight down."

"Yeah, but it'll _work_, right?" the Captain said, making his voice slow and loud.

"I must admit, that had me worried too," Cuthbert said pensively, frowning. "But once I stabilized the main compound, the erectile dysfunction almost completely vanished."

"Yeah, but… Hang on, what did you say about erectile dysfunction?" The Captain's eyes widened in horror. It was rare that he got to use his most manly-parts with anyone other than sweet Mrs Palm and her five lovely daughters, but that didn't mean he wasn't fond of it.

It made his trousers fit better, for a start.

"Captain?" Tintin asked.

"What did he say about erectile dysfunction?" the Captain asked worriedly.

"No, no, nothing of the sort!" Cuthbert said with a laugh.

"Phew!" The Captain wiped his brow. "Thank God for that!"

"Trust me Captain," Cuthbert continued, "your hair will _not_ fall out."

"My hair? Never mind about my hair! What about my – _Blistering barnacles, Snowy, will you get down!"_

"_Captain!" _Tintin cried.

"What! What do you want!"

"Are you sure you should be drinking again?" Tintin asked.

"Not if it makes my bell-end drop off," the Captain muttered. "Er, never mind that, lad," he added. "Don't you worry about a thing."

**x**

_What on earth are you doing, you fool! _The Other Müller glared at Müller as he straightened his tie and preened at himself in the mirror. _Old fool! What is this? Our midlife crisis? Are we there already? I had hoped we were a few years away from that. _

"Ah! There, you see? You are trying to will our age away just as much as I am. Pretending that we're younger than we are? Hoping that we're younger than we are? Pretending we're not old? Ignoring that we are?"

The Other Müller ignored him. _You realise it's quite futile, don't you? We can no more halt our aging than Cnut could hold back the tides._

"He wasn't trying to hold back the tides," Müller corrected him. "He was making a point about futility." He pulled the tie into a looser knot and opened the top button of his shirt.

_And yet he's only remembered for that one act of stupidity, regardless of his good intentions. Is that what you want? For people to look at you and say; 'There is the fool! Look at him, running around after women half his age'? Less than half! You're old enough to be her father. _

"What do I care what people think?" Müller asked scornfully. The tie didn't work. It made him look stuffy. Awkward. As though he should be wearing tweed and smoking a pipe and having intellectual conversations about geology or chess. Certain things did _not_ suit him, like ties and goatee beards. They made him look… well, _old. _

_That's because you _are _old! And you should care what people think. In our line of business they are always watching; always searching for weakness to exploit. If you show a crack in our armour now, they will exploit it and destroy us. This isn't a game: this is serious business. These people kill first and think nothing of it. We're not as powerful as we would like. Van Sant would take us apart at the first sign of weakness. _

Müller took his jacket off and examined himself. No, no: he needed the jacket. It was the tie that was the problem. Blasted thing. He'd have to take it off instead. "Business," he replied, pulling the jacket back on, "is booming. _Valkyrie _is booming. Even without the rackets and the whores we would still be raking in a small fortune. You are too cautious." He undid the tie and held it up, examining it with a critical squint. It was a good tie. It was 100% pure silk and a nice, soft grey colour. It matched the shirt and the suit, and the saleslady he'd been flirting with had assured him that if a man wearing such a tie asked her out to dinner she would surely accept.

She'd been good in bed: about a six. Satisfactory and competent.

"And besides, look at van Sant. He's not as clever as you think." He crossed the bedroom, leaving the dressing table and mirror to replace the tie on the tie-rack that stood on a dresser beside the closet. The Other Müller disappeared as he made to follow, reappearing in the long, mirrored doors of the closet a second later. He looked as though he was pacing, reminding Müller of a caged panther holding its anger in check. "Van Sant," he continued, "lives exactly as he does business: as a pimp. He makes no effort to mask his movements or hide what he is. He drives a criminal's car and wears the fine clothes of a criminal. He oozes the essence of criminality. You should lend him some of our caution. Compared to him, we're Lord Lucan. We're hidden in plain sight, with our prosperous nightclub and our veneer of respectability. We are no different from a thousand other businessmen all over the city. Our home is expensive yet moderate. We drive the same car as all the other successful men. We are the perfect example of a normal, well-to-do businessman. Nobody has any reason to examine us too closely, because nobody has any reason to suspect us. And to complete this image we have a beautiful, _respectable,_ young woman on our arm. Just like any other businessman would have."

The Other Müller was silent for a moment. He couldn't argue with that: Georgie Hancock would be a perfect addition to their image. He watched as Müller adjusted his shirt collar, annoyed at his own silence. Müller smirked, knowing that he'd won the argument. He tossed a wink at his reflection as he turned to leave.

_You look like a tool, _the Other Müller said sulkily.

"No I don't," Müller replied. Sometimes he really hated arguing with himself: he was never quite sure who had won.

**x**

"You look stunning, Georgie Hancock." He was surprised by the sincerity in his voice: she really did look stunning. It took a special kind of woman to impress him.

He was leaning against his car, which was parked in front of the houseboat. She had opened the door as soon as he'd slammed the car door closed. Now, she was coming down the gangplank, a pleasant blush on her cheeks as she smiled at the compliment. He held out the bunch of roses. "For you," he said. He leaned in and gave her soft kiss on the cheek. She blushed even harder, a soft pink tinge spreading as far as her nose even.

He led her around to the other side of the car and held the door open for her. She slid in with a pleased; "Thank you!" and he grinned to himself as he went back to his own side. Once in, he put on his seatbelt and looked at her. "I've made reservations for us in _Blauw aan de Wal, _if that's alright with you." He kept his face blank. This was a small test he'd thought of. If she squealed and acted like a child, he'd kick her out of the car.

She covered her mouth with her hand as a small laugh slipped out. She was surprised, he saw, but he had known she would be. She looked a little embarrassed too, but she wasn't blushing like a nun, which was a good sign.

"Fair enough," she said. "I, um, have never been there, but I'm told it's lovely."

"You don't mind?"

"No, of course not. You know the city better than I do: if you want to eat there then it must be good."

He nodded, satisfied. She had passed the test. _Blauw aan de Wal_ was slap-bang in the middle of the Red Light District, which might have been a problem for some women. Georgie had comported herself like a grown up instead of an immature school-girl or a squealing tourist.

He started the car and they drove off. It wasn't that far, but the roads were quite busy even at this time of the evening. Amsterdam was a busy city, and the town centre was always teeming with life. They were about halfway there when his phone started ringing. They were approaching a red light anyway, so he pulled over and checked who was calling. He frowned: it was an unfamiliar number. "Hello?" he asked cautiously when he answered.

"Good evening, Dr Müller. I'm calling you from _Blauw aan de Wal._ I believe you have a reservation here this evening?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "that is correct."

"I'm afraid we have to cancel, sir. We have a burst water pipe and we won't be able to open tonight."

Müller sighed and closed his eyes. He tried not to get angry. There was no point in getting angry: berating this poor bastard wouldn't fix the water pipe. "I see," he said through gritted teeth. "Thank you for calling."

"No problem, sir. I'm just sorry that we" –

He hung up. He didn't want to hear any more. He composed himself and flashed a brittle smile at Georgie. "I'm afraid our dinner plans have been cancelled, my dear."

"Oh?" she asked, wide-eyed. She looked like a deer in headlights. It almost hurt how badly he wanted to impress her.

"I think we shall have to make other plans."

"Oh, that's a shame. Why don't we park somewhere around here and walk for a bit through the city? It's a lovely evening, and we might spot a nice restaurant along the way."

"Good idea, Georgie Hancock. How wonderfully optimistic you are!" He was impressed again: he didn't know any woman willing to walk in high-heels just for the sake of a stroll in the sunshine. And Georgie Hancock was wearing high heels. They were a soft pink colour, to match her short, satin-like cocktail dress. Her blonde hair curled gently down her back.

He found a car-park and bought a ticket. Then… they strolled. She tentatively took his arm and they walked side-by-side through the streets. They were a little overdressed, but the only looks they drew were admiring, and after a while he realised he was enjoying her company in a way that was wholly unfamiliar to him. He pointed out various sights and gave her snippets of facts and history, and she was genuinely curious; asking intelligent questions and demanding more information.

But no matter where they walked, he couldn't find a good restaurant that wasn't already booked out for the evening. He was getting frustrated, and he didn't plan on losing his temper in front of Georgie Hancock.

"Oh look: a McDonalds," she said suddenly. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn't _really_ going to suggest…? Was she?

"I'd love a McFlurry," she declared. "I'm bloody starving. I had hoped that my gentleman caller would feed me. Turns out I'm a cheaper date than I thought, huh?" She winked at him and he found himself shaking his head and grinning at her.

"Only the best for you, Georgie Hancock. You want a McFlurry, then you shall have a McFlurry." He opened the door to the McDonalds and held it open for her, bowing as she passed him.

"Such a gentleman," she said. "Are we going Dutch, too?"

"You wound me, Georgie Hancock. You wound me. I would never ask you to pay for your own McFlurry."

**x**

They ended up taking their McFlurrys to go. The evening was still warm, and they were having such a good time talking while they walked to stay inside the McDonalds, where they were the most conspicuous, overdressed couple. Instead, they found themselves in Vondelpark, the largest park in Amsterdam, a short way away from the McDonalds.

They were walking near one of the ponds when they heard the music. The conversation had evolved: she was saying words in English and he was giving them to her in German before she attempted to repeat them. She seemed genuinely fascinated in his ability to speak more than one language fluently. They'd tried conversing in French, but hers was shocking and they'd had to stop because he was laughing too hard. But he hadn't been mocking her, and she'd only been mock-offended. The slap she'd given him on the arm was playful.

He was… dare he say it… having _fun._

"I like that music," she said. She rocked her hips in time to the beat. "What is it? Latin? Samba? Something like that?"

"It's a tango," he replied with a grin.

"Where's it coming from?"

"That's the _Openluchttheatre, _the open-air theatre. They always have music here in the summer," he explained.

"I like it," she declared.

"Do you know how to tango?"

"No, I don't. But it's still good music."

"Let me show you." He slid his hand around her back until it was resting just above her bum and pulled her body close. He took her right hand in his left and dipped her back slightly. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she smiled happily. "A lady must know how to dance, Georgie Hancock, especially one as beautiful as you." He straightened her up and moved his feet, pushing against hers as gently as he could. "Move your right foot there – good – and step back like _so. _Now, to the side, and back again, and a small twist. Loosen your hips, Georgie Hancock. When you dance, you must seduce your partner. Pay attention my dear," he said over her laughter, "I'm giving you a valuable education here."

They were drawing a few watchers now. The banks of the ponds were a popular place to sit. It was quiet but you could still hear the concerts taking place in the _Openluchttheatre_. The theatre was free, anyway, but it was better to relax in the sun with the music in the background. A few of the people that lay on the grass had turned to watch the handsome couple dance.

"You must sway with me, Georgie Hancock. You must draw me to you with your hips and your legs. Follow me. Here, here and _back_. Twist. Good! You're getting the hang of this, Georgie Hancock. You're a natural."

He didn't care that people were looking, and neither did she. She was delighted, and he was simply happy that he was the one that had made her so happy. Besides. He was having fun.

* * *

**Author's Note**: D'aaawww, Müller, you big racist, tango-dancing pimp. Anyway, there's so little Tintin in this chapter that I'm thinking of doing a second update this week. Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

* * *

In Marlinspike Hall, Tintin was reading a book about history and trying to bore himself to sleep. Not that history was boring – far from it. Tintin loved history. And geography. What better way to treat yourself than to read a book about another country's history? _Although if you say it like that, _he thought, _I just sound like a massive dork. _

But he couldn't help it. Ever since he was a little boy he'd been passionately fond of different cultures. He read everything he could get, from Native Americans, Aztecs, Mayans and Incas; to the Belgae Celts of Belgium, the Romans and their Empire, and the Ancient Egyptians and Greeks. It didn't stop there either: the Greeks had led him to art-history; which gave him an appreciation for iconography; which brought him to medieval art and architecture and the history of the Church, and once he'd started reading about that then _of course _he would have to read about the Crusades. What boy didn't like to hear stories of knights fighting in foreign wars? And of course, a large part of the Crusade history was focused on Jerusalem and invariably the Knights Templars were mentioned, so he'd simply _had _to read all about them…

It was all so fascinating. He really wondered why more people didn't enjoy history. Usually, a well-written history book was a worthy companion for an evening. The trick, he'd found, was actually finding a _well-written _ history book. Like David McCullagh or Herbert Asbury, or even Antony Beevor at a push. _Stalingrad _was a good book, after all.

The one he was currently reading was _not_ a well-written history book. It was clinical and cold and very, very dull. It was a local history of Mullinsart and the surrounding countryside from the 1600's to the 1800's. It had been written in the early 1900's by a man with no sense of humour or dramatic licence. Tintin had found it in the library and decided it was probably dull enough to lull him to sleep.

He was three chapters into it and already he had learnt a valuable lesson: Mullinsart was _dull. _Well, obviously the 1600's weren't going to be a hot-bed of raves and parties, but even by that century's standard Mullinsart was dull. The only thing he'd read that was even mildly interesting was that the house, Marlinspike, was built on an old church. In fact, the book's author noted that 'the current lorde' had allowed him to see the cellars and the remains of the old church. It had explained why there was a chapel down in the cellars.

The rest of the chapter was concerned with how large the land parcel attached to the manor was, and who rented what from Lord Haddock and at what price, and what they grew. It was page after page of tedious lists ad numbers. He was half hoping that someone would denounce somebody else as a witch, but the previous chapter had mentioned that the lord of the manor wasn't a very religious man and as a result the witch trials had never affected Mullinsart.

In theory, he should be asleep by now. Everything was perfect: the house was dead quiet; Nestor was nowhere near; the Captain was gone for his evening walk with Snowy in attendance; the late evening sun was soaking through the large French windows and the room was comfortably warm. Usually by now he would be snoozing face down in the book, but for some reason his eyes wouldn't close. He was tired – he _knew _he was tired – but when he closed his eyes his brain sharpened and hummed and refused to shut down.

A man named Ramó Col – Ramó Nash – had murdered more than thirty women over a sixteen year period. Every time Tintin closed his eyes he thought about those women. Some were little more than children – two had only just celebrated their sixteenth birthdays – but all of them had had their lives snatched away by violent, torturous means. Tintin had watched one of the girls die (Rosá Arzalla, a twenty-one year old student who had hoped to earn money for her third year of college by working in a popular resort on the south coast of Italy for the summer) and had been powerless to stop it.

He saw her the most, but they were all haunting his dreams. The newspapers were still full of the story as police forces all over Europe worked to identify all the victims. Each time a victim was claimed by her family the papers ran an extensive and exhaustive feature about her: her childhood, her home life, her relationship with her family, her friends, her hopes and dreams… For the papers, this couldn't have happened at a better time. Traditionally, the summer was the so-called 'silly season', when very few interesting things happened. Most of the governments weren't in session and there wasn't much going on. For once, they had _real_ news to report, instead of the usual round of cats stuck up trees and waterskiing squirrels.

Ramó Nash's face was printed in almost every paper. Of course it was: here is the monster that did these terrible things. Look at him. Look into the cold, stony glare of the killer. Is there cruelty in the mouth, in the careless curl of his lips? Are his eyes soulless? Can you see pure evil hidden anywhere in the fair-skinned face of the Monster of Belgium?

Tintin didn't know. All he could see was a dreadful familiarity and the accusing stares of dead women.

He avoided the newspapers now. He didn't want to be reminded of Ramó Nash, because no matter how hard he looked he didn't see the face of a killer. He saw a face too similar to his own, and it wasn't just a passing resemblance either. The man who had been born Ramó Col – the man that had become the monster Ramó Nash – was Tintin's biological father.

And the Captain thought it was _strange_ that Tintin couldn't sleep? The better question, Tintin thought, was how was he ever supposed to sleep again?

He heard the Captain first – the gravel crunching underfoot as man and dog approached the house. One of the French doors clicked as the Captain opened it and stepped inside, Snowy bounding ahead, eager to see his master.

Tintin was lying on his belly on the couch, stretched out fully with the book propped against the arm of the sofa. Snowy leaped straight up, stubby tail wagging furiously as he started to lick Tintin's face.

"It's a grand evening out there," the Captain said as he collapsed into an armchair. "You should have come with us."

"Mm," Tintin said. He closed the book and rolled onto his side so he could face the Captain. Snowy instantly made himself comfortable by snuggling into the curve of Tintin's stomach and legs.

"How's your book?"

"Not great. Very boring, in fact." Tintin picked absently at the cover. It was so old that the leather was starting to come away from the thick, pulpy cardboard underneath.

"Did you manage to get a bit of shut-eye?"

"No."

The Captain breathed heavily through his nose and Tintin glanced up sharply, but whatever the Captain had been going to say was left unsaid. He simply clamped his mouth firmly shut and inspected a speck of dirt under his thumbnail. True to his word, Tintin hadn't filled the prescription for sleeping tablets, and the Captain still thought it was a mistake.

"How's your arm?" he said at last.

"Fine," Tintin replied.

"And did you eat anything?"

"I wasn't hungry. I'll get something later."

"Did you eat anything at all today?" the Captain asked sharply. _Careful now, _he thought to himself, _you don't want to drive him away. _

"Of course," Tintin replied just as sharply. "I had something earlier today."

"What?" the Captain demanded. _Stop snapping! Bring it back to a reasonable tone of voice. We're just having a conversation. _

"What do you mean; 'what'?"

"What did you eat? And when?" _Ok, mouth, you're not listening to brain. Stop losing your bloody temper!_

"I had… I had toast," Tintin replied cagily.

"You had toast for breakfast!" the Captain exploded. "That was over twelve hours ago!" _Blistering barnacles, to hell with it: pussy-footing around him clearly isn't doing any good. _"What the flaming 'eck do you think you're playing at?"

"This isn't a game, Captain. I'm not _playing_ at anything. I'm just not hungry."

"Oh, right." The Captain couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "You don't eat; you don't sleep… That's perfectly normal, is it?"

"Yes, actually: most people don't eat if they're not hungry and nobody can 'force' themselves to sleep."

"This is more than that. This is like survivor's guilt or something." The Captain shook his head in disgust.

"Don't be ridiculous," Tintin said angrily. He looked away, back to the ancient, leather-bound book that still lay on the sofa. The Captain eyed him thoughtfully.

"That's it, isn't it?" he said at last. "Is that what this is about? That… that _man?"_

Tintin shook his head but stayed quiet. Snowy whimpered, upset by the raised voices and arguing.

"What's going on?" The Captain paused, waiting for an answer that didn't come. The silence stretched for a short while. "Thundering typhoons, lad, will you just _talk_ to me!"

"I'm going to bed." Tintin got up and Snowy quickly followed.

"To do what?" the Captain demanded. "To stare at the wall? To click about on-line all night? _Don't_ turn your back on me! Look at me!"

It had been a long time since Tintin had considered himself a child, and he didn't like being spoken to like one. Not even from the Captain, who had earned the right to assume parental concern by now. Tintin turned on his heel and pinned the Captain with what he hoped was a penetrating look. But something funny happened. He turned, and he stopped turning, but the room continued to turn around him. It spun gently, and the periphery of his vision started to waver. His head felt light and he could hear a loud ringing in his ears. The Captain, he could see, looked furious: his mouth was moving rapidly as his finger stabbed the air angrily for emphasis, but Tintin couldn't hear him. All he could hear was the ringing, which rose tremendously in volume. His vision blurred as white spots danced in front of his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision and his muddled thoughts.

Then he noticed he was looking at the ceiling. He was lying on his back, he realised. _But how did I get here? _he wondered.

The Captain's worried face hove into view. "You alright, lad?" Without waiting for an answer, he looked over his shoulder and called; "Tell 'im he just woke up!" Tintin struggled to his elbows and saw Nestor in the doorway with the cordless phone clamped against one ear. His usually unflappable demeanour was well and truly flapped. The butler nodded at Tintin, said something into the phone, and moved back out of sight.

"What happened?" Tintin asked. His head hurt and he was feeling a little groggy.

"You took a little spill, lad, that's all," the Captain replied as he helped Tintin up. Snowy hovered around, his tail wagging anxiously and his ears firmly down. "It happens to the best of us. Nothing to worry about."

Tintin gingerly sat back down on the sofa and felt the back of his head. There was a small, painful lump there, but when he took his hand away there was no blood. At his feet, Snowy sat down and pressed his whole body against Tintin's legs. He wasn't quite sure what happened, but he knew he didn't like it.

"You cracked your head when you landed." The Captain collapsed into an armchair directly opposite and pressed his hand to his chest. "Thundering typhoons, you scared the crap out of me."

"Are you alright?" Tintin asked anxiously. The Captain had always had a short temper and high blood pressure, but he'd suffered from more serious heart disease since their trip to the moon, having had a major cardiac episode on the return leg of the journey. Since then he had to take pills for a variety of things: his heart, his blood, stress… There was even some valium hidden in the house, for those special – and thankfully rare – moments of complete, apoplectic rage. It was too hard to calm him down once he'd lost it completely. It was much easier to just slip him a valium and wait it out.

"Yeah, I'm grand," the Captain said dismissively. "You just gave us a bit of a fright, that's all."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"Maybe I should just go to bed."

"Don't you move! Nestor just called the doctor. You stay right there until he's given you the once over."

"I thought you said it was nothing to worry about?" Tintin said quickly.

"Nothing for _you_ to worry about," the Captain corrected him pointedly. "This is my house and I'll worry how I want to, thank you _very_ much."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "You're worrying over nothing."

"Famous last words," the Captain warned. "Let's just see what the doctor says."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Surprise update because last week's didn't really have much Tintin in it. There will be the usual update on Friday too.

**RP164** made the point that Müller wouldn't give up his criminal ways. Rest assured, he doesn't. On the other hand, he's not being written the way I thought he would. He's still a complete bastard, but it turns out that he's a suave bastard. Blame Alan Rickman: he made me love sarcastic, evil bastards.

A quick note about Ramó Nash/Col and _Alph-Art_: for those that didn't read it, you won't know much about what Tintin's stressed out about (you can find it on my author's page if you desperately want to know what happened in it). For those that did read it, I couldn't follow on from it without including the aftermath of it and how it would affect Tintin. And sorry for the up-coming angst.

Meg: Pratchett for the win! :D (and Alan Rickman would have been way better as Lord Vetinari than Jeremy Irons. He was also Terry Pratchett's first choice.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

* * *

Doctor Rotule, it turned out, had a lot to say. "You're under a tremendous amount of stress," he said briskly. "I've never seen so much tension in one person, in all my life! And in one so young." He tutted under his breath.

"I told him," the Captain said. He was hovering anxiously over by the fireplace, pacing slightly – a sure sign of his own stress. "I did tell you," he added to Tintin. "I said it was stress."

"You're neglecting yourself." Doctor Rotule pulled a prescription pad out of his black leather bag and started scribbling on it. "You're run down and we must build you back up. For the next few weeks you'll be a walking pharmacy."

Tintin rubbed his hand over his eyes and started to protest.

"No arguments," Doctor Rotule said. "We'll put you on a week's course of sleeping tablets to start with. Then, we'll switch you to a muscle relaxant. They won't put you to sleep, but they'll help you get there naturally. A short course of Xanax to reduce your anxiety, and some Prozac to raise your spirits. You will also take vitamins and some nutritional shakes. These will help your appetite. No good can come of denying the body food. You drink coffee?"

"Yes."

"Not any more, you don't. At least, not for the next week or so. Cut it out of your diet for a while and switch to tea. You drink tea, yes? Good. Green tea is very good for you. You should drink it regularly. And more exercise. Never did I think I would have to say that to you, of all people, but the Captain said you were spending more time inside these days."

"I was out today!" Tintin protested. "I was in your surgery today!"

"Yeah, but I drove you there," the Captain pointed out. "When was the last time you walked into the village on your own? Or cycled somewhere? When was the last time you went into the city? Usually I can't keep track of you! Now you're stuck indoors all the time."

Tintin stayed quiet: the Captain was actually right. _I didn't even walk Snowy today, _he thought guiltily. _Come to think of it, I haven't walked him in a few days…_

"You have a dog and lots of land," Doctor Rotule said, as though he could read Tintin's mind. "You have no excuse, yes?"

"So how come he passed out?" the Captain asked.

"The body is tired," Doctor Rotule replied as he packed everything away. He'd already taken Tintin's blood pressure and a blood sample just in case. "It needed rest and it took it. When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

Tintin blushed. "I don't know," he admitted.

"At least a month ago," the Captain said.

"Oh, it's not been _that _long."

"Yes it has. He started having nightmares after – Um, as soon as we got back from Oostende."

"_Captain!"_

"Don't think I didn't hear you shouting in your sleep!"

"Ah, you have nightmares." Doctor Rotule stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You didn't mention this to me when I saw you this morning. Are they related to… what happened last month? With Ramó Nash?"

"Honestly, doctor, it's nothing."

"Are you afraid to sleep? Is that it?"

"_No!_ Of course not."

"Hmm. Perhaps you would do well to talk to someone."

"He won't talk to me," the Captain said huffily. "I've tried, but he just clams up."

"I mean a professional. Someone who deals with illnesses of the mind."

"My mind's fine!" Tintin protested.

"When a person undergoes such stress and emotional upheaval" –

"I haven't!"

– "it's very bad for the mind to keep it all locked inside. And what's bad for the mind is bad for the body. If the mind is unhealthy, so is the body."

"My mind is _not _unhealthy! I'm perfectly fine."

"It doesn't surprise me, you know." Doctor Rotule turned to the Captain and continued ignoring Tintin. "You see it a lot in professions such as his: they are faced with death and terrible things day in and day out. Eventually the mind breaks and" –

"How dare you!" Tintin snapped. "My mind did not 'break'!"

"Shortness of temper," Doctor Rotule said to the Captain. "Another sign. Mood swings and a change in temperament are classical" –

"The only thing _that's _a sign of, is how much you're annoying me! You're not listening to a single thing I'm saying!" Tintin got up and made to leave the room. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with me. I don't need your prescriptions and potions, Doctor. I'm not run-down or stressed out or insane. I'm perfectly fine. Good day to you!" He left then. He didn't slam the door though: he didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

**x**

He went up to his bedroom, but his temper was gone by the time he reached it. He paced restlessly. He was too worked up to sleep now, but he didn't have anything else to do. He was bored of the internet – something he never thought he'd say – and he'd played all his computer games and read all his books at least twice. He sat down on the side of his bed and drummed his fingers against the blankets.

Snowy hopped up beside him straight away. He disappeared for a second, nosing around near the pillows, and returned with a very old, very chewed stuffed fox toy. It had, once upon a time, squeaked very loudly when squeezed or chewed, but that was a distant memory. It was Snowy's oldest – and, consequently, his most smelliest – toy, and also his most favourite. It's name was 'Roxy Foxy'. Snowy pushed it towards Tintin's hand, but every time Tintin's hand so much as twitched, let alone moved to take it, Snowy withdrew it quickly. His stubby tail started to wag and his ears went back slightly.

Tintin knew this game. It was called; I'm Afraid You're Going To Have To Wrestle Me For It.

"Now Snowy," he said. Snowy backed away a little, his head turned to one side, his eyes peering up at Tintin slyly. "If you want to play, you'll have to actually _give _me the toy."

_No, _Snowy thought.

"Come on…"

_No. _

"Come onnnnn…!"

_NO!_

Tintin dove for the dog. Snowy jumped out of the way and scurried to the end of the bed, practically throwing himself in his haste to turn around. He was unwilling to turn his back on Tintin for even a second: Tintin had a magical way of taking toys and making them disappear, even after he had thrown them for Snowy to fetch. Snowy just couldn't figure it out.

"Aw, Snowy, gimmie Roxy Foxy."

_No._

"Aw, Snowy, I'll cry."

_No. _

Tintin pulled the hood of his hoodie up and covered his face with his hands, and pretended to cry. Snowy's eyes widened when he heard the sound and he started to panic. He bounded back to Tintin and pushed Roxy Foxy into Tintin's face. _I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You can have him! He'll make you happy again!_

Tintin grabbed the toy and, after a short tussle with the dog, claimed it as his prize. "Now," he said, rearranging himself so he was sitting with his back against the headboard of the bed. "Sit down and be nice."

Snowy sat down, his bum hovering over the blanket and his eyes trained on the toy with a fierce look of concentration. "Kiss Roxy Foxy," Tintin said. He held the fox out until it was nose to nose with Snowy, who licked it tentatively. "Good boy. Now, gimmie your paw." Tintin held his other hand out. Without looking at it, Snowy raised one of his paws and flopped it around until it finally rested in the palm of Tintin's hand. "Good boy!" Tintin shook it happily. Snowy's tail wagged and he licked his lips. He really, _really_ wanted Roxy Foxy. "Let Roxy Foxy pet you."

This was the tricky part. Tintin slowly moved the toy fox towards Snowy, who watched it with wide eyes, his tiny face filled with longing.

"You and that bloody dog," the Captain said.

Tintin jumped and looked around. The Captain was standing in the doorway watching them, shaking his head in amusement. Snowy took the opportunity to snatch the fox and make a break for it. Ignoring Tintin's exasperated calls, the dog took to his heels and ran out of the room, growling happily. "See what you did?" Tintin said to the Captain.

"Leave it: you'll never part that dog from his fox." The Captain came in and sat down on the edge of the bed beside Tintin's legs and turned so he was facing the teenager. "They're best friends, or something. It's almost sweet. Like a messed-up Disney film."

"You leave my messed up dog out of this."

The Captain grinned. "Doctor's gone," he said at last.

Tintin nodded. "Ok."

"He left that prescription."

Tintin said nothing.

"I don't think you need to take anything like Prozac or that," the Captain continued. "That's a bit extreme. It's not like you're running around in tears or anything. Are you?"

"No."

"Ok. Good. That's… er, that's good."

They fell silent, and the silence stretched out into minutes, until the Captain finally broke it. "Er, anything you want to talk about?"

"No." Tintin shrugged and shook his head.

"Really? Nothing at all?"

"No."

"Right. Nothing on your mind?"

"No."

"Good. Good. 'Cause, you see, I've been thinking about something." The Captain sat a bit straighter and grinned crookedly. "See, the Professor slipped me that pill, yeah? The one that makes alcohol taste like pi – er, taste nasty. That was six months ago. About two weeks later you got one too. Remember that? When we were in South America, in the Arumbaya village?"

Tintin nodded: he remembered it well. Arumbaya custom meant that all visitors had to take a drink with their host. To decline was a serious insult to the Arumbabyas, and the Professor's helpful desire to save the Arumbayas from drunkenness almost got them killed when the chief, Avakuki, took umbrage at their spitting his Scotch onto the ground. Luckily, a few seconds later his dose of Unaddikt (patent pending) kicked in and he became slightly more docile, although also slightly more bewildered.

"Well, see…" The Captain paused for a moment, frowning. "See, you're able to drink now. Aren't you? You had wine a few weeks ago*. And Cuthbert did say that the effects of Unaddikt are temporary**. So it stands to reason that I can drink now."

Tintin raised his eyebrows. "But you quit drinking."

"No, someone else forced me to. Now I can go ahead and get scuttered again. And I'm going to. In fact, I'm going to go back downstairs to drink a full bottle of whisky. And then I'm going to bed with a bottle of rum. And all day tomorrow, I'm going to sit in the bath getting pissed with a bottle of vodka." The Captain stood up and left the room.

"But you're doing so well!" Tintin got up quickly and hurried after the Captain. "It's been six months, Captain. Don't you like being sober? You said it yourself a while ago: you have more energy, you don't have to deal with hangovers, you sleep better, your mind is clearer… You said that your health was perfect. You'll ruin all that if you start drinking again!"

They were downstairs now, in the sitting room at the front of the house. It was a large, grand room with an ornate bar along one wall. "My health is going to hell," the Captain said.

"How?"

"Because I'm so flaming worried about you, I'm worrying myself sick! I almost had a feckin' heart attack tonight!" The Captain rounded on Tintin so suddenly that the teenager took a step back. "You think you're the only one having problems sleeping? I haven't had a good night's kip in a couple of days, lad. I can't sleep when you're like this. I'm too bloody worried to sleep. So I am going to drink this" – he raised a bottle of Loch Lomond in his left hand, holding it aloft as though rays from Heaven lit it from within – "and I'm passing the hell out. And if you have a problem with that… Fine. You're going to be awake tonight anyway, aren't you? Well, now you have something to sit up and worry about."

"Please don't, Captain."

The Captain placed the bottle on top of the bar. "Give me one good reason."

"Because… it's bad for you."

"Not good enough."

"But your health has been" –

"I don't care about that," the Captain said flatly.

"Then drink it," Tintin replied. "You're a grown man: you know your mind." He turned and walked away, back out into the front hall where he sat down on the fourth step of the grand, marble staircase. He heard the patter of paws and a second later he was joined by Snowy, who had a small piece of fluff hanging from his mouth – Roxy Foxy leaked stuffing these days – and a very satisfied expression on his face. He had shown that darn fox who was boss. Snowy sat down beside Tintin, his small body pressed against his master's side. Tintin put his arm around the dog and petted the curly fur of his chest. Snowy raised his head, indicating that he was open to having his chin tickled, so Tintin obliged.

The Captain appeared a few seconds later. He sat down beside Tintin and shook his head. "How do you do it?" he asked.

"What?" Tintin said.

"How do you manage to manipulate me so well?"

Tintin glared at him angrily. "I never manipulate you!"

"You do it all the time!"

"Name one time."

"I never wanted to go to Tibet, did I?" the Captain asked. "Remember that? Somehow, against my own wishes and my better judgement, I trekked half-way across the world to look for someone I was sure was dead. And that blasted treasure hunt. I didn't want to go on that. I told you it was a bad idea. I wanted to stay here, but you somehow managed to manipulate me into going."

"That was a good idea," Tintin said. "You're a millionaire now, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but the treasure was here the whole time! There was no need to go half-way round the world for it!"

"And I didn't do anything," Tintin continued matter-of-factly. "The Thompsons did."

"You told 'em I was scared," the Captain pointed out. "You knew that if they called me a coward I'd do it just to prove them wrong. It must be nice being you: having that mad brain. People think you're sweet and innocent, but you have a mind like a politician: all twisty and turny. You know how to play people, and you can play me like a violin."

Tintin grinned. "You make it sound like a bad thing."

"It's certainly not the worst thing you do," the Captain admitted.

"Oh? I'm glad to know I can be even worse than that," Tintin said, miffed.

"Yeah, definitely. The worst is when you put yourself into dangerous situations without any thought for anyone else."

"So I'm selfish too?"

"Oh, completely," the Captain agreed. "In a selfless sort of way. You're driven by good ideals, but you don't think about the consequences. Do you have any idea what it's like every time I'm told that you're missing?"

Tintin shrugged. "I imagine you'd be relieved. It's a break from the manipulation and the selfishness, yes?"

"Ha! Very good. No, it's not a relief. At first, you can't breath. Your heart stops for a second. Just for a little while. And that's the best part of it, because your mind's gone completely blank. You can't think at all. But when your heart starts back up and all the blood goes rushing around, your brain kicks back in and all sorts of awful things come into your head. And I mean _all sorts," _he added with a nudge. "You think of the worst things people can do to one another, and I've already thought of it. Believe me.

"'Cause that's all you can do, really. Sit around waiting, completely helpless and hopeless and thinking of awful things like that. You might've already escaped after the first hour or two, and are off doing wonderfully heroic things, but I'm still stuck. Trapped. Waiting. Not able to do anything. Wondering if you're going to make it out alive this time. Wondering if this time is the time they'll finish you off. Wondering if I'll even get a body back to bury. That's my biggest fear: not knowing."

"Stop, Captain."

"Why? I'm sorry; is this upsetting you?" the Captain enquired. "Blistering barnacles, you should try living through it. But at least when it's that, it's a _real_ fear. It's something I can focus on. Criminals are real, live dangers. They can be dealt with. They're... What's that word? Not tango… Definitely starts with a 'T'."

"Tangible?" Tintin offered.

"That's it. It's tangible. We can fight against that sort of danger. But when I have to watch you hurting yourself… I think that's the worst of all."

"I'm not" –

"Yeah you are," the Captain said flatly. "Don't pretend that you're not. You're ignoring everything that happened. You're fighting to keep all of those emotions inside yourself instead of dealing with them. You're killing yourself, and there's nothing I can do to stop you." He paused and shook his head. "I just thought you cared enough about me to let me help you. I guess I was wrong. Or," he added, "you _could_ let me help you." He put his hand into his jacket pocket, and when he took it back out he held it out to Tintin. Sitting in his palm was a small, round, white tablet.

Tintin looked at it.

"Doctor Rotule left a sleeping tablet here," the Captain explained. "Just in case you decided you wanted one after all."

"I can't," Tintin said helplessly.

"You won't dream," the Captain promised.

"It's not that…"

"You're afraid something will happen when you're asleep, and you won't be able to wake up in time?"

Tintin looked down and nodded.

"We'll make a deal," the Captain said. "You take this now, and tomorrow we go and get that prescription filled – you don't have to take Xanax or anything like that – and I'll go and get another Unaddikt from Cuthbert. I'll stay off the drink for another six months. You get better, and I'll look after everything. Deal?"

Tintin nodded. "Ok," he agreed. He took the sleeping pill from the Captain's hand and popped it into his mouth. He made a face as he swallowed it. "How long will this take to work?"

"About an hour. Maybe less. Hey, you know what we haven't done in a while?" the Captain asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Water balloon fight."

"Ha! Nestor almost killed us the last time."

"Well, this time we'll do it outside instead of in the dining room. I was thinking as well… You know how paint-gun pellets hurt? What if we just got them big super-soakers and a tin of paint…?"

"Hmm. We'd definitely have to do that outside." Tintin stopped and became thoughtful. Finally, he turned to the Captain with his eyes narrowed. "Did you just manipulate me? Into taking a sleeping pill?"

"Are you just noticing that now?" the Captain asked, surprised. "Thundering typhoons, for a smart lad you're a bit dim."

* * *

*See Alph-Art (my version)

**See Tintin and the Picaros

**Author's Note:** Tintin is actually able to manipulate the Captain very well, although he usually uses the Captain's dependency on drink against him, then does it while the man is pissed and open to suggestions.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

* * *

It was always the same. The same high, concrete walls and floor that seemed to go on without end, that didn't seem to come from or lead to anywhere. How he had gotten inside the corridor was a mystery: he was just there, and it was dark and he was walking. It was always dark, too. The light was strange: deep, black shadows that were so black they were almost solid, with softer, almost-blue shadows that were more pliable; more mobile. They moved and twisted and followed him. If he reached out to his side, the walls were always cold and damp; underfoot, the floor was bumpy and slick, and even though the lumps felt hard in some places, in other places they were softer and sank under his weight.

He never looked down. He had an idea of what he was walking on, but if he said it out loud he thought he might start screaming, and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to stop.

He stared straight ahead. He knew he was coming _from_ something – something awful – but he didn't know if he was heading away from it, or going deeper in to danger. He had a feeling it was a metaphor for his life.

He started to jog, just like he always did, when he felt eyes on his back. It was the same feeling every time: he'd be walking along, minding his own business and gritting his teeth in an effort not to look down, when suddenly the hairs at the back of his neck would prick up and a chill would run down his spine. The almost-blue shadows would whisper and converge, as though they were having a meeting. They seemed excited: they were anticipating something. They were malicious.

He jogged along for a few minutes, or perhaps hours, trying to convince himself that it wasn't anything. He wasn't panicking. He was just trying to get there faster. But the feeling would grow worse, until he was sure there was something just behind him and at any moment now he'd feel claws ripping into the backs of his legs, or coming down on his shoulder and jerking him backwards into its clutches. He'd pick up pace, and the walls would start to close.

It wasn't that they moved: that would be _insane. _They just… narrowed. Where as before he wouldn't have been able to brush both walls with his arms held out straight, like aeroplane wings, he now felt the damp soaking through the thin material of his t-shirt, on his arms. Soon, he had to turn himself to the side to fit through the space. He couldn't go back – that was unthinkable: he _had _to go on – but it was getting harder and harder. His breath came in gasps as he forced himself through the tiny opening, and then he was wedged. He could go no further. He was left, stuck between slabs of concrete, and still the corridor stretched out. He could see no end to it: it just got smaller and smaller, like Alice. He was so stuck, he couldn't even turn his head, so every time the hand grabbed his arm, he panicked.

"_Full steam ahead!"_

The roar was a new addition. Tintin sat up with a shout of alarm. He could still feel where, in the dream, the hand had grabbed his arm. That patch of skin felt cold, like ice. He shivered and looked around blearily, wondering what on earth had woken him.

The Captain was here. That was unusual. Snowy's comfortable old armchair had been dragged over beside Tintin's bed, and the Captain was sitting in it tangled in an old blanket. The man looked as though he had just woken up. A book lay discarded on the floor, from when it had slipped off the Captain's lap during the night.

"What happened?" Tintin asked. Snowy looked from one to the other, his tail wagging nervously.

The Captain yawned and stretched. "You shouted in your sleep. It woke me up, but I was in the middle of a dream. It was a good dream. But I think I shouted then."

"What were you dreaming about?" Tintin asked curiously. Snowy settled back down on his lap, curled up, and allowed the teenager to pet him.

"I was Phileas Fogg," the Captain said with a grin. "It was really good. Best dream I've had in a long time. What about you?" he added suddenly.

"I didn't dream," Tintin lied. "Sleeping tablet, remember?"

"Oh yeah. How'd you sleep?"

Tintin glanced at his clock: it was 7am. "I slept the whole night through," he said, impressed. It had been a long time since he'd gone to bed at 11pm and gotten up at 7am. He usually went to bed a lot later. Normally, he didn't need a lot of sleep, and he'd once heard that people who slept for six hours or less lived longer than people who slept for eight hours or more.

"And how do you feel?"

"Human," he admitted. His head was still foggy and sleepy, but he felt a lot better than he had yesterday. In fact, he felt like he could lie back down and get another few hours of sleep. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

The Captain shrugged and started to straighten the blanket back up. "Dunno. I was going to bed last night and your light was still on. I did a check and you were fast asleep, face down in a book. This book." He reached down and plucked the discarded book from the floor and leafed through it. "I read a few pages while I was doing a bit of tidying and decided to read for a bit. It was nice and cool in here so I just sat down and must've fallen asleep." He flashed the book at Tintin. It was _A Confederacy of Dunces _by John Kennedy Toole. "It's not that good, is it?"

"Good enough to keep you reading," Tintin replied. He crawled out from under Snowy and started to make the bed.

"Yeah, but the guy's a complete prat." The Captain leafed through the book a bit more. "I just didn't like him."

"You're not supposed to: he's a complete prat. He's an anti-hero."

"Good for him." The Captain stood up and stretched again. "Right. Shower time." He paused and pursed his lips, before farting thunderously. "There's your wake-up call."

"Thank you," Tintin said sarcastically. "Thank you so much for that."

"No problem." The Captain saluted him with a grin and headed off to his own bathroom.

**x**

He was no longer a faded businessman. A man that had wasted his life on being a criminal. Who had wasted his intelligence on schemes and the planning of crimes. Who had ruined his professional career on a get-rich-quick scheme that had destroyed his life. Who had resorted to terrorism for a quick buck. Who was no better than a pimp – although a world-class one, it had to be said.

He was still all those things, but now he was all those _plus_ the kind of man that gets head in the backseat of a car.

_Finally. _

It had changed him. His walk was jaunty. He smiled at the doorman. He tipped the valet. He had a joke for the muscle-bound baboon that was sitting behind the reception desk at the gym, attempting to work the telephone. For once, he worked out and he was happy. The burn in his biceps and back felt good. He whistled while he showered. Life was good.

He had some work to do in _Valkyrie_, but he'd call Georgie for lunch. He drove there just before noon, and even the roads seemed to sense his good mood, and work hard to prolong it. He made the lights almost every time, and the traffic was lighter than usual. It was a beautiful day, and the city seemed to have taken the day off.

"What's up with you?"

Müller heard the voice just as he was about to push the side door of _Valkyrie_ open. He paused and looked around. His faithful compadre – his only friend, really – Ivan was leaning against the ally wall, smoking a cigarette furtively. He did everything furtively: he'd spent time in jail in his native Russia. Müller shrugged at the man. "Why does something need to be wrong?"

"You're never happy. It's what I like most about you." Ivan tossed the cigarette butt and blew out the smoke noisily as he pushed away from the wall and made to follow Müller.

Rolling his eyes, Müller ignored the still-smouldering butt and went into _Valkyrie_. "I had a good evening."

"Did you fuck her?" Müller could hear the smile in Ivan's words. He glared at the Russian. "No," he said shortly.

"Is no good unless you fuck," Ivan declared. They made their way through the club – it was deserted – and up the back stairs to the office. "I had good evening. I found a Lithuanian whore. She wasn't so happy to find me."

"You really hate them, don't you?" Müller asked, amused. He unlocked the office door and invited Ivan in. "The Lithuanians, I mean."

"What's to like?" Ivan asked with a shrug. "They're animals. Pigs. At least a dog is loyal." To emphasise his point, he spat on the floor.

Müller rolled his eyes again. He could take the occasional littering outside the club, but to spit on his floor was pushing it a bit. "Lick it up," he said, pointing to the offending spit.

Ivan looked at the floor, then back up to the doctor. "You crazy?" he asked.

In a heartbeat, Müller had a gun out and pointing squarely at Ivan's face. "Lick it up," he repeated. "I'm sick of telling you not to spit on the floor. Not inside, Ivan. You can shit on the floor _outside_ as far as I'm concerned, but when I spend that much money on new floors for my club, you will not spit on them."

Ivan grinned. For a lunatic, he was handsome. He had blond hair and a good, square jaw, and white, even teeth. His eyes were a dark grey and the girls went crazy over him. He looked like a film star – an unconventionally twitchy one, true – but had the brain of a demented ferret. Müller often thought that when the world ended, or some advanced alien civilisation invaded and enslaved humanity, Ivan would be fine. He'd slink from pillar to post, like he always did, ignoring the world around him and surviving what it threw at him.

It was such a shame that he was a dick.

Müller waited. He wouldn't pull the trigger, he knew, but someone would crack first and he was buggered if it was going to be him this time.

Seconds passed. Ivan sniffed and took an apple out of the pocket of his black leather jacket. Müller raised an eyebrow and watched as the man examined the apple, wiped it on his sleeve, and took a bite.

"That fat Dutch prick wants to see you," he said.

Müller put his gun away. "What does he want now?" He collapsed into his chair and put his feet on the desk. Overhead, the multiple television screens showed the empty nightclub, yellow light filtering through the thick steel shutters and casting a strange glow on the metal fixtures and spartan dance-floor.

Ivan sat down on the middle cushion of the leather sofa and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I don't know. I'm not his mother. So who is this amazing woman that can give you such a good mood without fucking you?"

"It's not all about fucking," Müller murmured as he took his phone out. He started typing a message out, to send to Georgie Hancock.

"She does other stuff?"

"Yes." It was probably a bad idea to give out even this small piece of information. Not because Ivan would use it against him – they'd been through too much to start betraying each other now – but because the man would keep needling and prying for more information.

"Good for you." Müller glanced up in time to see Ivan giving him a thumbs-up. "We can't all be blessed with Ivan's big cock," Ivan continued with a grin. "You lesser men must be happy with what you get."

"Uh-huh." Müller sent the text and rolled his eyes. Again.

**x**

The Captain watched as the amber liquid tossed and tumbled over the ice on its descent to the bottom of the glass. He could feel saliva rising in his mouth. He wanted it. He wanted it badly. He'd never wanted anything else in his life more. The condensation stuck to the side of the glass like crystals. It was…_ Ice cold. _And the first mouthful, after such a long separation from it, would be heavenly. Like manna from the gods. Like the vagina of Kate Moss.

"Why, liquor of life, do I love you so?" he quoted. "When in all our encounters you lay me low?"

He heard the creak of the door opening behind him, and sighed deeply.

"What are you doing?" Tintin asked curiously. The Captain heard the pitter-patter of paws and then Snowy was there, standing up with his paws braced against the front of the bar, watching the whisky.

"I do this sometimes," the Captain said sadly. "I come in here, pour myself a glass of whisky, and look at it. Sometimes, when I do this" – he lifted the glass and put it to his nose, taking a deep breath – "I can almost taste it," he finished regretfully as he put the glass down.

"Sorry," Tintin said awkwardly. Now, in the light of day and after a full night's sleep, he felt embarrassed about his behaviour last night. He didn't feel like he had a right to demand anything of the Captain, not least that he continue giving up whisky. It was almost his only vice (super-soakers filled with Dulux paint notwithstanding. The breakfast nook was destroyed, but on the plus side it had needed to be decorated anyway).

"Not your fault," the Captain said morosely.

"I, er, was just thinking of going for a walk," Tintin continued. The Captain perked up at once and looked back at Tintin from over his shoulder. "Not too far," Tintin added. "But I need to take Snowy out."

"Coo! Are you really? Do you fancy some company? We can have a bit of a laugh," the Captain said hopefully.

"Yeah, I'd like that," Tintin replied, pleased. "I'm ready to go, so I'll just wait for you outside, ok?"

"Sounds good." The Captain watched as Tintin left the room, Snowy at his heels. It was good that the lad was going out for a walk. Having him at home all the time was just… Strange. _Weird. _He waited until he heard the front door open before turning back to the whisky. He should dispose of this: there was no point letting it sit out in this heat. The ice would melt and ruin the whisky.

He lined the glass up carefully. It was a historic moment. Pouring whisky down the drain was an unnatural act for a Haddock. His fingers slipped easily around the glass. It fit into his hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He paused, enjoying the feeling of the ice-cold condensation soaking through his skin, cooling his hand to the bone. He silently counted to three, and drank the whisky down straight.

He closed his eyes and waited, the liquid held in his mouth, for the appalling taste of the Unaddikt to kick in. When it didn't, he allowed himself to swallow. He held his breath as the whisky slid down his throat, like velvet – like _silk –_ and only exhaled when it was burning his stomach.

He could handle it this time. He'd just gone six months completely sober: he wasn't about to do that again. This time, he'd be smart. He'd be sensible. He wouldn't let himself get addicted again. And Tintin? Well, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

The Captain shoved his cap onto his head and, whistling, followed Tintin out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

* * *

Strolling through Waterlooplein market, Georgie barely heard her phone _ting! _as a new message came through. She had been up for hours, helping her aunt set up her crappy stall with all the home-made tat she sold. Veltje had shown up a few hours later, after the market had opened to the public, and once Aunt Hill had a cup of tea and a cream cake to keep her company Georgie had headed off with her friend to do some shopping.

Veltje always had money, though Georgie had never heard her talk about having a job. She didn't seem to have any family either, sharing a small studio flat with her boyfriend Rae. She had never mentioned her parents or any siblings, and Georgie had never raised the topic with her: they had only known each other for a few weeks and it wasn't any of her business. If Veltje wanted to tell her, she would have told her by now.

Veltje flicked through a rail of clothes, examining the dresses critically. She sniffed. "Do you think I'd look good in red?" she asked.

Georgie rolled her eyes and took her phone out. "You look good in anything," she replied. "You know you do. Why ask?"

Veltje smiled smugly. "I do, don't I? What about this? Is it too slutty?" She held up a shiny, fake-leather, mini-dress.

Georgie ignored the text and raised an eyebrow at the dress. "Far too slutty," she said.

"Good. I'll buy it, then."

"You should try that on: you're so tall, I don't think that dress will cover your bum!"

"So?" Veltje looked genuinely puzzled.

Georgie stared at her for a second, her face carefully blank. "Nothing. Go ahead." Let her waste her money: she'd get piles from sitting on cold surfaces if she wasn't careful, but it wasn't Georgie's problem. She looked at her phone and smiled. The text was from Jörn, and simply said; _"Lunch?" _

_I'm at a market with my aunt. Sorry. :(_

She put her phone away and waited for her friend, but by the time Veltje had paid for her dress Georgie's phone had _Ting!_ed again.

_Which market?_

_Can't spell it. Waterloo? _

"I'm hungry," Veltje declared. "Let's go and get some lunch. What do you fancy?"

"I can't," Georgie said with a sigh. "I promised my aunt I'd help her out here all day. Unless you want to get a burger from one of the vans?"

"And get food poisoning? No thanks!" Veltje said with a grin. Then she pouted. "So I have to go and eat alone? I hate that. Maybe I'll ring Jörn, and see if he wants to have lunch with me." She smiled impishly. "I think he's really crazy about me."

Georgie raised another eyebrow. "Really?" In her hand, her phone _Ting!_ed again.

_I'll come to you. We'll grab a burger or something. _

She opened her mouth to tell Veltje, but her friend cut her off.

"Yeah, he's really into girls like me. Women, I mean." She cast a sly glance at Georgie. The English girl wore a pair of green capris and an old t-shirt that had seen better days. In contrast, Veltje was practically dressed for a catwalk, with her clingy hot-pants, sleeveless top and killer heels. "Little girls don't impress him. You know how men are."

Georgie closed her mouth and smiled sweetly. "Yes," she said. "I do." She quickly texted Jörn back; _Sounds great! The greasier the better! We only live once, right? ;) _

Within thirty seconds she had a reply; _That's my girl!_

"Are you going to ring him?" she asked Veltje innocently.

Veltje checked her watch. "Not yet," she murmured. "He usually has business all afternoon, until later."

"He doesn't interrupt his work for you, then?"

"No! Of course not! He's a very busy man. Usually, he calls me when he's free."

_That's a booty call! _Georgie thought to herself, amused. _He rings you for sex, you silly girl! _"When did you last see him?" she asked, trying to vanish the amused scorn she felt sure was in her voice.

"Two nights ago. You were there." Veltje looked over at another stall, one that was selling brightly coloured shoes. "Ooh! Those are pretty!" She made a bee-line for the stall and picked up a bright red pair of high heels and measured one against the sole of her foot.

"I thought he said he would call you afterwards?" Georgie pressed, hoping she didn't sound like she was interrogating the other girl.

"Nah. Sometimes he doesn't. It depends on how he feels."

"So how do you know he's crazy about you?"

Veltje stared into space thoughtfully. "It's a feeling I get," she said at last. She cocked her head to one side. "You know what I mean? When you get that feeling that a boy really likes you?"

"He's not a boy," Georgie said quickly. "He's a full-grown man."

Veltje shrugged and gestured to the woman that worked the stall. "Age is only a number," she said over her shoulder to Georgie. "All men are boys really. I'll take these," she added to the woman. "Do you have them in a size six?"

"Does Rae know about this? He is your boyfriend, after all."

"The hell with Rae. He's just a boy, not a man."

_I thought age was only a number? _Georgie had to bite her tongue from saying it out loud. During their date yesterday, Jörn had spoken briefly about Veltje, but nothing he'd said had been complimentary, aside from "Don't get me wrong: she's very beautiful", but that had been followed by "but she's as thick as pig shit."

"Besides," Veltje continued as she paid for her shoes, "Rae doesn't care. He thinks that it's unnatural for people to be monogamous. You don't find it in any other animal, and humans are really just animals."

"Actually, you find it in several other animal species," Georgie said.

Veltje snorted as she rejoined her friend. "Name one," she demanded.

"Black swans."

"What? Really?"

"Yep. They mate for life. Wolves are monogamous too."

"Wolves?" Veltje stopped dead and stared at her. "You're kidding! That has to be a lie!"

"Nope. Wolf packs are made up of a male wolf and his mate, and their children. It's like a wild family. And the male and the female usually stay together for life."

"What about lions?" Veltje asked, interested.

Georgie shook her head. "I don't think so. But there's loads of others: birds, monkeys… Even fish."

"Cool. You're so smart, Georgie." Veltje shifted her shopping into one hand and linked arms with Georgie. They were comically mismatched: one tall and teetering in high heels while the other was now almost a head shorter wearing flat flip-flops. "If brains was beauty, you'd be almost as pretty as me."

Now that Jörn had pointed out that Veltje was fairly stupid, Georgie found she was noticing it more. Again, she bit her tongue to stop herself from pointing out that if brains _were_ beauty, Veltje would be fairly ugly. "It's a good job they're not," she said humbly.

"Not they, 'it'," Veltje corrected her. "Your brain is only one thing, not many."

"Jesus fucking wept." Georgie had heard the expression 'facepalm', but only now, when she had to stop herself from putting her hand to her head in despair, did she fully understand its meaning. "Veltje, the word 'brains' is plural, and that's what we were talking about."

"Oooh! Look at that!" Veltje hadn't heard her. Instead, she pulled away, thrust her shopping at Georgie, and wandered over to another stall. "I love those earrings. They're so cool."

Georgie groaned inwardly, and prayed that Jörn would get there soon.

**x**

Jörn Müller had parked his car in an underground car park a few blocks away, preferring to pay for a ticket and walk the rest of the way than to leave the expensive vehicle on the street outside of the flee market. He strolled through the stalls and the crowds, keeping a careful eye out for Georgie. It would have been easier to phone her and get her to meet him somewhere, but he wanted to surprise her. He'd already bought a small bouquet of tulips for her.

He was tall, so he had the advantage of seeing over the heads of the crowd, but so was Veltje, which was why he spotted her first.

She hadn't seen him though, so he slowed down and wondered why she was there. She looked relaxed, and he realised she was chatting to someone. When she finally moved out of the way, he realised it was Georgie and an unexpected smile took over his mouth. Georgie, he saw, was holding a lot of shopping bags and looking slightly annoyed. Veltje was practically floating on air in comparison. He waited until Veltje was enthralled with something on one of the stalls, and stealthy moved towards them, positioning himself behind Georgie. He leaned down until his mouth was next to her ear.

"Boo," he said quietly.

"Fuck!" she cried, dropping the bags. She turned, her eyes wide, and grinned when she saw it was him. "You bastard! You frightened the life out of me!"

Veltje started to laugh. "What are you doing here?" she cried in delight.

"I'm here to take my friend to lunch," he replied. "Surprise!" he added to Georgie, whipping the tulips out from behind his back. She laughed and accepted them happily.

"Thank you, they're beautiful."

"What?" Veltje asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Müller put his arm around Georgie's shoulders casually. "We're going for a big, greasy burger," he said. "See you later, Veltje."

"I'll talk to you later," Georgie added, trying not to sound smug. She put her arm around Müller's waist as they walked away.

Veltje watched them go. Her shopping lay forgotten on the ground where Georgie had dropped it. Her heart thudded hollowly in her chest and her arms and legs felt numb with shock. _That little bitch! _she thought to herself. _She's stealing my man! How dare she? _

It was time little Georgia Haddock learned a few home truths.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

* * *

The lake was quiet; peaceful. There was no wind that day so the surface of the water was like glass. The boat sat, not even bobbing on the gentlest ripple. It was undisturbed and in it the two figures were likewise completely still, as though they were unconsciously mirroring their environment, loath to break the peaceful spell.

The Captain sat, his jacket and jumper abandoned in the bottom of the boat, with his fishing rod planted between his feet. His hat was pushed back on his head, the peak lifted at a jaunty angle as he squinted over the water searching for the tell-tale bubbles that signified an incoming shoal. Tintin lay stretched out on the prow, his chin resting on his hands as he stared into the depths of the lake.

They were over an interesting spot: once, part of Mulinsart village had extended this far, but it was flooded to build the lake. Sometimes, when the water was especially clear and calm, you could still see the buildings and roads and paths and lampposts… it was interesting. Tintin watched for it every time he and the Captain went out on the lake, and he carefully noted and catalogued the ways the water had claimed the old town.

Snowy was the only creature that was moving. He was sharing his time between the Captain and Tintin, moving from one to the other with the sure expectation that eventually one of them would either give him chicken or play with him. It had to happen, eventually, and just because it hadn't happened so far didn't mean it _couldn't_ happen. Eventually.

"The hell with this." The Captain pulled his rod out of its nest and tossed it aside. "The only thing I've caught today is probably malaria." He slapped at another mosquito and stared at the resulting smoosh in disgust. "This is the worst summer for fishing."

"You say that every year," Tintin replied with a sigh.

"Yeah? Well, this year I mean it. Thundering typhoons, we've been out all day and not so much as a nibble." He moved to the back of the boat and started the motor on the third try. Instantly, the peaceful scene of abandoned, water-clogged streets underneath Tintin disappeared in a riot of buzzing ripples.

He sighed again and got up from his stomach, sliding into the boat proper. "Back to the shore?" he asked. He absently poked Snowy with his foot, and the dog attacked his shoe.

"Might as well," the Captain answered grumpily as he turned the boat and took them back to the sandy, stony shore.

Getting the boat out of the water and into the trailer used to be a hassle, but they were doing this so often now that it was much easier these days. They were used to it, Tintin supposed. That was what happened: if you did something often enough you got used to it. It became second nature. But it hadn't always been like this. Before, his routine had been get up; check his messages; try to eat at some point during the day. Oh, and most importantly: Stay Alive.

Now, it was get up; have breakfast; do a bit of work; hang out with the Captain; have dinner; walk Snowy; hang out a bit more. If something interesting happened, it happened, and he interrupted his routine for it. But more often than not, he just spent his days hanging out and doing the bare minimum to keep his agent happy. He'd started a new novel a while ago – he'd already published three – but he'd hit a writer's block recently. He'd published his fiction under his real name – nobody had really known his real name – but now, thanks to Ramó Nash, everyone knew it. His little series of books, which had been popular among fantasy fans, had suddenly exploded in sales (which had been nice, he had to admit) but now everyone knew it was him, there was somehow more _pressure_ to make the next one good.

The urge to run away was strong.

That had always been his default tactic: if there was something wrong, leave the country. Go to Africa, go to Russia, go to China… It was easier to deal with a big problem, like corruption and murder, than it was to deal with his own, smaller ones.

He leaned against the side of the trailer and stared out over the lake. Snowy was at the shore, just standing in the water and enjoying the cool feeling on his legs and belly. "I'm thinking of going away," Tintin said as casually as he could.

The Captain slammed the last bolt home and shook his head. "So we're back here, are we? Thundering typhoons, I thought you were past all that."

Tintin eyed him curiously. "Past what?"

"Running away." The Captain shrugged on his jacket and set his cap back on his head. "You haven't done it in ages. I thought you'd matured a bit and stopped doing that sort of thing."

"I don't run away," Tintin lied, slightly insulted. He hadn't realised that other people had noticed it.

"Yes you do, you always do. Or at least, you _used_ to do it." The Captain bent down and scooped up a handful of stones. Carefully, he started to throw them one by one, aiming for the water near Snowy. The dog jumped as the first stone hit the water, and turned to face the _bloop!_ of ripples that had suddenly appeared. With Snowy's attention diverted, the Captain aimed another stone. It arched over the dog's head and splashed him when it hit the water. This was, by far, the most entertaining part of fishing for both the Captain and Snowy.

"Remember when all that stuff happened with the Middle East?" the Captain continued. "And I ended up getting mobilised by the British Navy? The only thing I asked you to do was to stay in the damned country. Now, during a time of imminent war most normal people would do just that. Everyone else I know did just that: stayed at home and waited for the outcome. Not you, though. You signed up as a comms officer on a ship headed for the Middle East, and ended up right in the thick of it, didn't you?" The Captain turned and rested his arms on the back of the trailer, and fixed Tintin with a look.

"I came back from deployment to find you gone. Nobody had seen sight nor sound of you for weeks. I had to go back through all your appointments to find out where you'd gone, and visit each of them to find out what you'd talked about. It took time to find out you were on the _Speedol Star._ It took time to find out that you had been arrested as a drug smuggler by a police force notorious for corruption. It took time – and bribes – to find out where you'd gone after that, and tracking down that idiot sheik in the desert was bloody annoying. But I did it. Why did I do it?" he asked with a philosophical air. "Why indeed: I still don't know the bloody answer to _that_ question. All I know is that I did it, blistering barnacles, and I did it because you couldn't stay home alone for a few weeks. God knows what else was going on with you. You sure as hell didn't tell me what the problem was." The Captain shrugged and turned away. He walked back to the shore and resumed playing with Snowy. Tintin rolled his eyes and trailed after him.

"Do you know," the Captain said as soon as Tintin had caught up, "that for the entire time you were in the Middle East, I had to pay your rent in Labrador Road?"

Tintin blinked. "I didn't know that," he replied honestly. It wasn't something he had thought of at the time: events had overtaken him and his landlady hadn't mentioned over-due rent when he'd got back. Not that he'd really gone back there since: they'd ended up in Syldavia shortly after their arrival in Belgium, and after the whole moon thing he'd just sort of... moved in to Marlinspike.

"Speaking of which," the Captain continued, "when are you going to let the lease go on that place? Isn't it a bit silly to have to pay rent on that flat while you're not living there? And don't start talking about moving back in there: you move in there again and I'll burn the place down!"

"Then you'd go to jail," Tintin said in a sing-song voice.

"No I wouldn't," the Captain said gruffly. "I'd offer that Mrs Finch a hefty pay out. She'd bite my hand off if it was holding enough cash to set her up for the rest of her life."

"Not everyone is obsessed with money."

"Yeah, and some people are celibate. They're both in the minority, believe me. Look." He threw his last stone and turned to face Tintin. "You want to go away? Fine. Let's go on holiday. Nothing crazy: just a nice hotel in a nice place, with lots of fun stuff to do that won't kill us. Where does Chang live now? Singapore, is it? There's a load of tourist-y stuff to do there: let's go over for a month and just relax. Recharge our batteries. And before we go, you can ring everyone in your address book and tell them not to do anything stupid before we get back. No getting into trouble; no falling into danger; no getting usurped or dethroned or defrocked… They can't even use the bath in case they drown by accident."

Tintin laughed. "A month with no trouble? Now you're just tempting fate."

"What's seldom is precious."

Tintin sighed again. "Ok," he said. "Let's go somewhere."

"Halle-bleeding-lujah!" The Captain threw his hands up and testified. "At last he sees sense. Now put all thoughts of heading away on your own out of your mind. Knowing my luck you'd just end up in Syria, and I'll end up with a heart attack. And you don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

"No Captain," Tintin agreed.

"No Captain indeed!" The Captain bent down and scooped up another handful of stones. Snowy perked up at once and danced around his ankles. "You daft beggar," the Captain said to the dog. Beside him, Tintin sat down to watch the show.

**x**

"You're lying," Georgie said. She hoped her voice was calm.

Veltje shrugged. "Think about it," she said. "It makes _sense. _I told him about you because you're the kind of girl they take: away from home, away from her parents for the first time, having your little rebellion… I was going to give you drugged wine and you would have woken up far away from here and sold on to another brothel."

"Another brothel," Georgie repeated flatly.

"_Yes. _The upstairs of _Valkyrie _is a brothel. That's where I used to work: I was one of his whores."

Georgie laughed. This was the only believable part of Veltje's story. "I can believe you're a whore," Georgie bit out.

"I was his whore," Veltje hissed, her eyes narrowed angrily. "I fucked men for money until he realised he could make more money using me to lure other girls in."

"I can't believe I'm listening to this bullshit!"

"It's not bullshit," Veltje insisted. "He's a son of a bitch and a liar and he doesn't love you. He doesn't _love_ anyone. He tolerates people. He's a drug dealer and a pimp and a kidnapper. He's a criminal, Georgie. Wake up and smell the coffee!"

"I don't have to listen to this." Georgie swiped angrily at her tears and gathered up her belongings. They were going out tonight – well, _supposed_ to be, anyway – and Veltje had invited her over to get ready together. Then, she'd dropped this extraordinary tale about Jörn being a pimp and a… a _gangster_ on Georgie. It lay between them like an open wound: there was no way back from this. "You're jealous," Georgie said as she pushed her feet into her shoes. "You're just jealous that he's interested in me instead of you. I used to envy you. Now I just pity you." With that parting shot she yanked the flat's door open and fled. The elevator was out of order – it had been for as long as Georgie had known Veltje – so she dashed into the stairwell and hurried down as fast as her high heels would let her.

She felt better when she was finally outside, under the warmth of the evening sun. She wasn't crying any more, at least. She didn't know where she was going though. She slowed down as she considered her options. She could go back to the houseboat, but nobody there would understand or care. Danny was still wrapped up in sulking and Aunt Hill was already on her way to being stoned by the time they left the flee market earlier on. She couldn't _really_ go to any of Veltje's friends: they would probably side with their friend over a newcomer they hardly knew, and she didn't know anyone else in Amsterdam.

So where could she go?

_Jörn, _she decided. She would go to Jörn and find out what was really going on.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

* * *

Müller rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. His meeting with the Dutchman was at ten o'clock that night, and he wasn't looking forward to it. "Genital warts," he said absently, "are a pain in my balls."

Ivan sniggered appreciatively. "How many in total?"

"Half," Müller replied. He leaned back in his office chair and swung gently from side-to-side. "That son of a bitch."

"Maybe he thought that because you're a doctor you could treat them?" Ivan offered.

"Yes. I'm sure I could convince them that their STDs are psychosomatic and cure them of their delusions. Who does he think I am?" he wondered. "Does he think I'm a cunt? Is that why he sells me infected stock?"

"I think he does, boss," Ivan said. His tone of voice was almost gleeful: goading Müller into action. Ivan preferred the old days, where they killed anyone that looked at them cock-eyed or dared to presume they were cunts. The newer, more cautious Müller that had emerged from that Saudi Arabian jail* was less fun than the old one.

"I'm not a cunt, Ivan."

"Yes you are."

"Ok, I am," Müller agreed mildly. "But I'm not a stupid one."

"Hell no."

"He will have to be dealt with."

"Put the fear of God into him." Ivan raised his hand and clenched his fist.

"We shall do it together," Müller promised. In response, Ivan smiled brightly, showing rows of straight, white teeth.

They tensed when they heard the noise of someone coming up the stairs. Ivan sat forward, a knife hidden in his hand, while Müller stilled completely and waited. The door opened and Georgia, flushed with exertion and out of breath, stood there. She looked around, her eyes wild, and took a few steps forward when she saw Müller. "Are you alright?" he asked, standing up at once. She looked strange; fearful. It wasn't an attractive look on her, he decided. He would have to take steps to make sure this look never darkened her face again. On his sofa, Ivan eyed them both interestedly. Müller gestured to the Russian, indicating the door. Ivan stood up at once, understanding that his boss needed time alone.

"The magnificent blow-jobber?" he asked in German with a sly grin.

"Keep your phone with you," Müller answered as he led Georgie to a chair and sat her down. "I'll need you close later."

"Of course, boss."

When Ivan was gone, Müller knelt in front of Georgie. "What's wrong?" he asked gently. "What happened?"

"I really like you," she blurted out, "but I know men are dicks. I mean, not that you're a dick, but men in general. Or maybe you are a dick. I don't know. Maybe this is nothing to you, and I have to admit that I looked at this - us - like a holiday romance and nothing more, but I think we've connected now, sort of clicked, and I think I'm falling for you." Her words came out in a rush, tumbling out before she had a chance to think about what she was going to say.

Müller kept his face as impassive as he could. "Ok," he said slowly. And this… scares you?"

"No." She shook her head. "I had to explain that. I don't know how you feel about me, and I know you don't have to tell me the truth, but Veltje said some things about you, and I'm scared. I'm scared it's all true and I don't know you at all."

_Veltje! That bitch! What has she said? _"Ok," he said aloud. "I don't know what she could have told you, so I'm in the dark here. Care to enlighten me?" He stood up and sat on the edge of his desk, facing her. "If I am to defend myself, I have to know what the charges are."

Georgie took a deep breath. "She says you run whores. She says you kidnap girls and drug them and sell them to brothels. She says you have girls working for you, here; upstairs, that are whores who went through this. She says she was a whore for you."

Müller kept his poker face for a whole five seconds before bursting into laughter. _That stupid Veltje! She should have just said I was married: that would have turned Georgie Hancock off straight away! God bless people who tell outlandish truths!_

Eventually, when his laughter had died away, he wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. "She's so stupid!" he said in wonderment. "Veltje said this to you?"

Georgie nodded, slightly shocked by his reaction.

"It sounds so crazy!" Müller stood up and went to his desk, and took a bottle of whisky and two shot glasses out of the bottom drawer. He poured her a drink and toasted her, and they downed the whisky at the same time. Georgie winced slightly as she slammed the shot glass back on the desk.

"So she's lying?" she demanded.

Müller held his hands out to her. "How could that be the truth?" he asked, amused. "It's crazy! I'm no boy scout, true enough, but an international kidnapping ring orchestrated by me? From my little nightclub? Preposterous!"

Georgie laughed uncertainly. "It does sound crazy," she conceded.

"It is!"

"She says the upstairs is a brothel."

_Shit! It is! _He shook his head seriously. "I will tell you the truth, Georgie Hancock, and hopefully you will hear me out. And when you hear me out, I pray you will not judge me harshly."

She nodded, her mouth open slightly as she leaned forward with dreadful anticipation. He could read it in her body: she didn't want to know the truth. She wanted to believe that he was good and kind and decent. She wanted the beautiful lie, and he wanted to give it to her.

"I deal drugs," he admitted. "From the rooms upstairs, I mean." He hung his head, pretending it was a bigger deal than it was, when really he didn't ever give it a second thought. "Coke, mainly, but sometimes LSD and speed. And mushrooms when they're in season." He looked back up at her: her face said she was swallowing it. Not that it was a lie: it wasn't. He did deal drugs from upstairs. But that wasn't all he did up there. "There it is, Georgie Hancock: my dark secret." _Most of it, anyway. _

"Drugs?" she asked breathlessly.

"Drugs," he agreed.

"That's it?"

"That isn't enough?"

"Christ! Of course it is." She wiped at her eyes. "I just... I can't believe I came in here with that insane story!" She laughed nervously and he grinned at her.

"Sounds more interesting than what I do up there."

"Ugh, it sounds _awful," _she said distastefully. "Women being held against their will to be raped over and over?"

"Disgusting," he agreed loyally. "And the men who pay for it are just as bad as the ones who keep such women."

"Of course!" she cried. "They're just as culpable! They know where those women come from: they won't do anything to stop it because they fancy a quick fuck. Pathetic."

"Very pathetic. Horrible men. They're what's wrong with the world."

"They are!"

He stood up, and so did she. He went to her and took her in his arms, in an easy hug. She rested her head against his chest and he leaned into the embrace, gently smelling her hair. It was a warm, comforting scent. "You poor thing," he murmured. "Jealous Veltje trying to hurt you."

"She _is _jealous, isn't she?" Georgie asked, her voice slightly muffled.

"Of course she is," he said soothingly. "We, uh, used to have a thing," he admitted, feigning embarrassment.

"Did you?" Georgie looked up at him. "Really? She said she slept with you…"

"We did sleep together," he said with a heavy sigh. "I thought she was very beautiful, but the more time I spent with her I found her to be very stupid, and I couldn't have a relationship with a fool: I would feel like I was taking advantage of her." _Plus she had no intention of giving up the money whoring afforded her, and she likes to play head games that I have no intention of playing. And she has those awful sycophants that follow her around, hanging on every stupid word she says simply because she can get them good drugs. _

She wasn't even all that great in bed: about a four. Definite ten in the looks department though.

"I bet she fucks on the first date," Georgie said savagely.

"She does," Müller admitted. That had been the only thing he'd really liked about Veltje… "Anyway," he said briskly, pulling away from her. Time was ticking, and it was already 8:30pm. In an hour and a half he'd have that fat bastard Van Sant in his office to discuss the morality of selling whores that had genital warts to other, unsuspecting business men. And perhaps breaking at least one of the man's fingers for having the audacity to do it to him. "You look beautiful, Georgie Hancock. Why do you look so beautiful? For my benefit? To make me admire you more? It isn't possible, you know."

She blushed and ducked her head, giving him that impossibly seductive, yet innocent gaze that reminded him so much of Princess Diana. "I'm going out tonight," she said shyly. "Veltje wanted to come here with friends. I don't think I'll bother though."

"I insist," Müller declared. "Show her that you have nothing to be ashamed about. That we, my dear, have done nothing wrong."

"She's a jealous cow."

"Exactly. Besides, she might have known you'd come straight here, to me. She probably won't have the guts to show up tonight. You have your night out, my dear. You enjoy yourself, and I will wait on you hand on foot. Business permitting." He led her down the stairs and into the bar. They were already opened, but the music was low and there were few people in the club. A small group hugged one booth in the darkest corner – they were, he knew, waiting to go up to see one of his dealers – and Ivan sat at the bar with a pint glass of what looked to be water and ice. Müller knew better though: it was pure vodka. The man was shameless, and could drink it as easily as others drank orange juice.

"Let me drive you home," Müller said, slipping his arm around Georgie's shoulder. "I'll get you there, Georgie Hancock, with plenty of time to spare. No doubt you will tell me that you aren't ready to go out yet" –

"I'm not!" she said. "I look awful!"

"And I will be surprised as hell when you show up here later, on my personal invitation, looking four _million_ times better than you do right now. Because, my dear Georgie Hancock, I do not think it possible for you to look better than you do now." He held her at arms length and smiled at her. She smiled back and nodded.

"Thank you, Jörn," she said earnestly. "For everything."

"Anything for you, Georgie Hancock." He pressed his lips against her forehead in a chaste kiss before turning to Ivan and switching back to German. "Stay around," he said with a smile. "I have a job for you."

"Is it going to be fun?" Ivan asked hopefully.

"You're going to be very, very happy, my friend."

"Great!" Ivan beamed at Georgie, his smile infectious enough to make her smile back, even though she didn't understand what they were talking about. "I hope it's better than a blow-job!"

**x**

Time was tight. It was 9:15pm. He had already dropped Georgie Hancock home and picked up Ivan from the club, and now they were jogging up the stairs to Veltje's flat. They reached her floor and when he knocked on her door he placed his finger over the peek-hole. He didn't think she was clever enough to check before opening the door, but if she did he didn't want to give her any warning.

Seconds ticked by. He knocked again, louder this time, and heard a male voice shouting that someone was coming. The door was unlocked and opened to reveal Veltje's ridiculous boyfriend Rae. Rae looked strung-out and bleary-eyed. "Why aren't you working?" Müller snapped. "You have customers waiting."

Rae grinned, probably planning on bullshitting his way out of it, but he froze when he saw Ivan behind Müller. Müller jerked his thumb behind him. "Get down to _Valkyrie _now." Rae nodded and slipped by the two men, keeping his head down as he passed Ivan, who watched him as though he was a particularly interesting specimen.

Müller went into the flat and looked around. Veltje was nowhere to be seen. Her voice came from behind the ugly fabric she had used to rope off the sleeping area of the large, one-roomed flat. "Who is it, Rae?" she asked tersely.

He silently crossed the room and disappeared behind the ugly curtains. She was sitting on the bed with her back to him, and as he crept closer he could see she was balancing an old, large and hard-covered children's book on her lap as she rolled a joint. He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed as he dragged her to her feet, her weed and smoker's tin shedding their contents as they fell to the ground.

"It's me," he said, turning her so he could see her face. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her mouth a perfect 'o' of surprise. "You don't look happy to see me, darling," he said as he dragged her out to the main part of the flat. Ivan had closed the door and was waiting, joyfully anticipating the violence he would be doling out.

"What… what do you want?" she stammered. She was visibly steeling herself; gathering her wits and her courage, and for a fleeting moment he was proud of her.

"I want to know why you treat me like I'm some kind of a cunt, Veltje," he said smoothly. "Especially as we all know that the only cunt in this room is you." He reached down and squeezed her painfully between her legs. She cried out. "Tell me, my dear, what would you do in my situation?"

"I wouldn't kill your best whore," she managed to gasp.

He laughed brightly. "No, of course not! That would be stupid. Killing you hadn't crossed my mind, my dear. I'm not fucking stupid, like you. No, it seems to me that you have gotten ideas above your station. But that's easily fixed: I just need to remind you where you stand in the grand scheme of things. Tell me, Veltje, where do you stand?"

"Fuck you," she hissed.

He backhanded her easily. She staggered back, kept upright only by his hand wrapped around her arm. He knew he wasn't being gentle: he'd leave bruises before he was done. And then Ivan would do the same, but worse.

"What are you?" he asked patiently.

"Please!" she begged.

He hit her again, this time just a slap to focus her. "Tell me," he said, his voice warning.

"Fuck you! I won't say it!"

A solid punch to the face broke her jaw, and she was screaming. He dropped her and planted a few kicks in her ribs before manhandling her to her feet again. She drooped in his grasp, her body trying to curl up on her injured stomach. "I wonder how many ribs are broken?" he asked. "How many do you think?"

"'uck you!" she screamed. He dropped her once more and slapped her soundly about the face, pulling at her arms as she tried to take cover from his blows. "Stop messing about, Veltje," he said with a sigh. "Who is in charge?"

"You," she said, her voice muffled by the damage done to her jaw, and her arms, which were wrapped around her head.

"And what are you?"

"Whore."

"Good. Where is your place?"

There was silence as she thought about it, and he speeded up the process by kicking her in the leg viciously. _"I 'ont 'ow! I 'ont 'ow!" _she screamed.

"You don't know?" He hunkered down beside her and dug his fingers into the soft flesh beneath her chin, dragging her face up so he could look at her. Tears poured down her cheeks, her mascara running in twin rivets. Blood bubbled from her mouth. "Your place is on your knees. Understand?" She nodded. "Good. On your knees, or on your back. Ivan is going to teach you." Her eyes widened even further as she cast a sidelong glance at the grinning, handsome Russian.

Müller let her go and got up, wiping his bloody knuckles on his handkerchief. "Don't kill her," he reminded Ivan.

The screaming started when he was on the stairs down to the lobby. He paused for a moment and shook his head, amazed that she would try and pull something like this. She really was a very stupid girl. With a shrug, he continued on, and headed back to _Valkyrie._

* * *

**Author's Note:** About Müller being in jail in a Saudi country: He appeared in the Red Sea Sharks as Mull Pasha, leading the airforce of the rebel government. At the back of the book, in the newspaper clippings, it says that Mull Pasha was ousted once Emir Ben Kalish Ezab took power back from the rebels. Logically, this would have resulted in Müller/Mull Pasha being arrested and either killed or jailed (until he could bribe his way out). I just thought I'd slip it in, in keeping with the character/canon.

*waves* Hi Razzamatazz. Quiet in here, isn't it? Lol! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

* * *

_One week later: Mulinsart_

It started as a game, but escalated quickly. It always did. Everything started small, until one of them got a good idea. Then the fireworks came out and they had a great time, until someone came along and told them to stop blowing up the rhododendrons. This time, fireworks weren't involved, which could actually be seen as a blessing. This time, it was water.

The summer had started to boil over. It was an effort to lie in a deck chair and complain, but somehow the Captain was managing it. Snowy, small and hairy, was having a hard time. He was a twitchy dog by nature, and was always looking to play. By mid-morning he was panting hard and lying flat out on the grass, trying to cool his belly.

That was why Tintin had filled a bunch of water balloons. The game was simple: he'd throw them; Snowy would chase them like he always did; they would burst and the water would cool the dog down. He was carrying them outside in a basin of water – to stop them from bursting prematurely when they rubbed against each other – when he noticed his shoelace was untied. With a sigh, he put the basin down, knelt, and started to tie it.

Which was when the Captain dumped a bottle of water over his head. Tintin gasped as the ice-cold water froze his head and shoulders, and trickled down the back of his neck. "Why?" he asked plaintively. "Why would you do that!"

"Funny," the Captain replied between snorts of laughter.

"Oh?" Tintin asked. He seized a water balloon and threw it at the Captain. It exploded off the man's arm. "How's that for funny?"

And it was on. They scrambled for balloons and took cover. Tintin dashed behind the garage while the Captain simply upended the patio table and ducked behind it. That was a half an hour ago. Now, the lawn between their hiding spots was awash with water. There were actually puddles, they were pleased to note. But now, Tintin also had a problem.

He was out of water balloons: the Captain had two left. That wasn't the worst of it because the Captain didn't _know _he had an advantage. But what the Captain had that Tintin _didn't_ have was handy access to a garden hose. It was still plugged in to the small tap a few yards behind the Captain, from when Nestor had watered the flowers early that morning. Once the Captain threw his last balloons, he would resort to the hose, and he would be unmerciful. Tintin needed a weapon.

He had a choice. He could wait it out until the water balloons were gone, then run to the house before the Captain got the hose – probability of success: slim. The Captain could have the hose turned on before Tintin was halfway to the house. He'd get soaked. The other option was to run now, let the Captain use the last of his water balloons, and reach the house before he got the hose. If Tintin was able to reach the house, he could also reach his water gun, which was huge and more like a canon than a pistol.

Tintin took a deep breath. He could hear the Captain. He was intoning a solemn poem about the sea and death in a dreadful voice. Tintin peeked quickly out from behind the garage. "Stop it!" he shouted. "That's really putting me off!"

"Good!" the Captain retorted. "It's supposed to. _'Yeeearrrgh, the waves as they break upon the hull!'"_

_Go!_ Tintin dashed out from behind the garage and tread water as he turned and headed to the house. From the corner of his eye he saw the Captain pop up from behind the overturned table, so he put on a burst of speed. The first balloon hit the wall of the garage behind him, but close enough to shower him in sun-warmed water. He had almost reached the French doors when the second balloon hit him full-on in the side of the face and exploded. His own burst of laughter – it really had been a spectacular shot – joined the Captain's, and although he stumbled at the threshold he managed to stay on his feet and speed into the house. He didn't bother closing the door; he just ran straight into the corridor.

His water gun was just inside the front door, leaning against the wall. It was already filled – he'd been using it to tease Snowy ("No, Captain, I'm just cooling him down, honest.") – so all he had to do was grab it and head back out to the fight.

"Ah-ha!" He seized it and held it against his chest like a rifle. "Pay back time!"

_Ding dong!_

He turned, wide-eyed, and stared at the door. It was solid wood, but highly coincidental that someone would be on the other side at that exact moment. He reached out and opened it.

And did a double-take.

For a second, he thought it was the Captain and tried to duck out of the way of the hose. When he blinked and looked again, he saw that it wasn't the Captain at all. But the caller looked remarkably like the Captain, there was no denying it. They had the same nose, the same mouth, the same black hair… This man had stubble but no beard, and was about a half a head shorter than the Captain was. He was also accompanied by a tall teenage boy who shared the Haddock-y features.

"Can I help you?" Tintin asked. He knew he was staring, but the resemblance was uncanny.

"I'm looking for Archibald Haddock," the Haddock-like man replied.

"Right. Right. Uh, he's out the back. Come in." Tintin stepped back and opened the door wide, inviting them inside. He found that he couldn't take his eyes off the man: he had never seen anyone that looked so remarkably like the Captain before. It _had _to be a relation. _Doesn't the Captain have a brother? _he wondered. _This must be him. _

He led the man and boy through the house and into the back sitting room. "He's just outside," Tintin said, pointing at the French doors, which were still open. It wasn't until the man was stepping through the opening that he remembered about the hose. "No! Wait!"

_Ssssssshhhhhhhhplosh! _

There was a horrible moment where nobody said anything. The Haddock-like man stood, drenched, as still as a statue. Tintin covered his eyes with his hand and tried not to laugh. The Haddock-like boy looked confused. "What happened?" he asked.

"Really?" the Haddock-like man asked. He looked at the Captain, who was hidden from Tintin and the boy, who were still inside the house. The Haddock-like man looked down at his wet shirt and jeans and back up to the hidden Captain. "Honestly? Twenty years and this is what I get?"

"Frankie?" the Captain's voice asked uncertainly.

"Archie," the Haddock-like man said flatly.

"Great!" the Captain said, turning the hose back on.

**x**

"You did deserve it," the Captain said as he flung a clean towel at Francis Haddock.

"What for?" Francis demanded. He vigorously rubbed his hair with the towel. They were outside, sitting in deck chairs beside the garage. Tintin and Francis's son, Daniel, were inside. The Captain had no intention of arguing in front of them, and meetings between Archibald and Francis had a way of dissolving into vicious arguments.

"For being a twat," the Captain replied. He leaned back and opened the ice box, extracting two cans of Coke. He tossed one to Francis and squirmed in his seat to get comfortable.

"Specifically? Or just in general?"

"Oh, come on, Frankie: we're not best mates or anything."

"We used to be," Frankie said morosely.

"And dinosaurs used to be alive, but they aren't now. Things change."

"I need your help, Archie."

"Oh yeah?" The Captain rolled his eyes. "I must admit, when I came into that money I expected you to show up. I just thought it would be before now."

"That's not what I want!" Frankie protested.

"Pull the other one, son. Go on, what is it? Business in trouble?"

"No!"

"House re-mortgaged to the hilt?"

"No."

"Wife about to leave you and take half?" There was silence. The Captain glanced at Frankie, and read the truth in his face. "Oh, this will be good!" He popped the tab on his Coke and waited for Frankie to continue. Part of the reason they no longer spoke was, from the Captain's point of view, due to the fact that Frankie had married a complete bitch with no sense of humour.

"My daughter's gone missing," Frankie said. He stared at the grass between his feet. "I can't find her."

"She ran away? What's that got to do with that _thing _you married?"

"She's gone, Archie. They took her."

"Who took her?"

"I don't know. But she's gone and I can't find her."

"Your daughter?"

"Georgie."

_Who the hell was Georgie? _The Captain shook his head. "You're going to have to explain all this: I have no idea what's going on."

"I'm sleeping with my secretary, my wife is leaving me, and my daughter Georgie has gone missing," Frankie said. He toasted the Captain with his Coke.

The Captain couldn't help laughing. "Thundering typhoons," he said, "you could fall over and make it look difficult. Start at the beginning, will you?"

**x**

Tintin watched the two men. They were talking, but it didn't look like they were arguing. That was a good sign, he thought. The Haddock-like boy, who's name was Daniel, was sitting on the sofa in an awkward silence. Snowy sat beside him, staring at him curiously and occasionally wagging his tail when Daniel looked at him. "So," said Daniel. Tintin turned back around and gave him his full attention. In the face of such aggressive listening, Daniel felt his tongue start to trip up. "Er, is, er, Tintin like… A nickname or something."

"Yes," Tintin replied.

Silence.

Daniel tried again. "Oh. Er. People call me Danny. Or Dan."

"Nice to meet you, Danny. Or Dan."

"Yeah, same. Er, so what's it like being a reporter?"

"Are you here on holiday?" Tintin asked, changing the subject smoothly.

"No," Daniel replied, slightly off-balance by the shift in conversation. "I was in Amsterdam on holiday."

"Was it nice?" Tintin's gaze wandered back to the two Haddock men. Francis – Frankie – had his head in his hands, and Tintin thought that he was crying.

"Not really. My sister's gone missing."

Tintin blinked, then turned back around to face Daniel. "What?"

"My sister, Georgia." He shrugged half-heartedly. "Georgie. She's gone missing."

"When?"

"Last Monday. She didn't come home that night."

"When did you know she was missing?" Tintin flopped into a chair across from Danny. "Or rather, when did you stop thinking she just hadn't come home?"

"Monday," Danny admitted. "She went out that lunchtime, but she was meeting someone she'd fallen out with. She was supposed to come home and change for her date with her boyfriend" – here, he grimaced – "but she never did. And she never came back that whole night."

"And that was unusual?" Tintin cocked his head to one side: a teenager not coming home from her boyfriend's, while in Amsterdam? He would have thought it was the norm.

"Yeah: she changes her outfit, like, four times a day. And there's no way she would have gone to dinner in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and an old t-shirt."

"Are the police involved?"

"Yeah. I called the police on Tuesday afternoon, but they said she had to be missing for longer. When they finally did come out to us, they didn't take it seriously. They're looking in canals for her. They think she's dead, don't they?"

Tintin studied Danny's face carefully, deciding whether or not to tell him the truth. In the end, his natural honesty won out. "Yes," he said. "In this case, when a young person goes missing in a foreign country during the summer, most times it's because they've drunk too much and fallen into a canal or a river. It happens quite a lot."

"I don't think so," Danny said worriedly. "I mean, I know it's probably a statistic or something, but her boyfriend has me worried. Do you know a man named Müller?"

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"That's the name of the man Georgie was seeing: Jörn Müller."

Tintin thought about it for a split second. "Do you know what he looks like?"

"Yeah. I never met him, but he dropped Georgie home a couple of times, and picked her up too. I'd recognise him if I saw him again."

Tintin got up and left the room. Danny sat in silence, drumming his fingers together and trying to avoid the dog's gaze. Snowy was still fascinated by him. Slowly, the dog inched forward and began to snuffle at Danny's hands before giving them a tentative lick. "Hello," Danny said. Snowy, taking this as an opening of friendship, clambered up to sit on Danny's lap, waiting patiently to be petted. For a given value of 'patiently'.

"Is he ok?" Danny asked nervously as Tintin came back into the room. Snowy was now standing up, with both paws on Danny's right shoulder, staring into his face.

"Oh? Yeah, he just wants you to pet him. Scratch him behind his ears: he loves that. Or if he's annoying you just put him down." Tintin was carrying a blue, plastic folder. He put it on the coffee table and pulled out a few loose pages. He rifled through them, then placed one on the table facing Danny.

"That's him," Danny said at once.

"You're sure?" Tintin asked.

"Yep. That's Jörn. Same beard; same baldy head."

"Hmm. He _is_ pretty distinctive… How did she meet him?"

**x**

"I can't help you. Sorry," the Captain said. Frankie was staring at him in disbelief.

"What do you mean, you can't help? This is the sort of thing you _do!"_

The Captain shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't know what to tell you: I can't help you. Look, you said the police are involved, yes? They'll find her."

"They think she's dead, Archie! They're not looking for her. Something happened to her. I don't know what, but it wasn't an accident."

"How do you know?"

"I just... _know. _I can't explain."

_Neither can I, but I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean. _"If the police can't do anything, how can I?"

"Because you get results? Because that kid, Tintin, knows things?" Frankie rolled his eyes. "Is this how bad we've gotten? That you'll let my daughter die – or worse – because you don't like me? Because of some old grudge from decades ago?"

"No," the Captain snapped. "That isn't it."

"Then what is it?"

"Take your pick! Where the hell were you when Tintin went missing? The first time, I mean: I didn't bother ringing you after that because the first time you didn't give a damn! You told me to sod off! Am I supposed to be the font of compassion because it's finally happened to you?"

"He's not even related to you!"

The Captain speared him with a look. "That's low," he said. "That's real low. You know I think of that lad as family. I'm his guardian, for Christ's sake. Thundering typhoons, he is son to me in everything but name only. So don't sit there and take the high ground on this. You're _finally _getting a glimpse of what it's like to be me: congratulations. It stinks, doesn't it?"

"Archie, she's in trouble!" Frankie pleaded. "What am I supposed to do?"

"What the police tell you." The Captain's face hardened. "I can't get involved in this. Not after…" He trailed into silence.

"After what?" Frankie demanded.

"Do you not read the papers?" the Captain asked. "After everything that happened last month! No." He shook his head firmly. "I can't help you. _He _can't help you. It's too soon. He's not able for it. And I won't have him upset over something like this. It's too soon."

Frankie jumped to his feet in anger. "I _need _help! You can't turn me away over" –

"Shut up."

"How _dare_ you!"

"Hush!" The Captain shot him a look before turning back to face the house. Tintin had emerged, with Snowy at his heels and Danny trailing behind them. "Alright?" the Captain asked as they got closer.

"Fine," Tintin said. "Hey, remember you said we should go away?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to Amsterdam. Are you coming?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** late update, but with any luck there'll still be one on Friday.


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

* * *

At last; Amsterdam. They had driven, because it wasn't that long of a drive and it was easier to jump into the car than it was to root out Snowy's passport. Plus, the car was air-conditioned and was far more comfortable than a plan or a train or a bus. Frankie and Danny had flown back the day after they'd asked for help, and now, just over 24 hours later, help had arrived. Or was trying to arrive. The Captain pulled off the motorway and into the city, and straight into the forecourt of a petrol station. "We need petrol. And I want food," he declared.

"Why not wait until we get to the hotel?" Tintin asked. "It won't take that long to get there."

"Because I'm starving. Do you want anything."

"No, thanks."

"Right. I'll be back in a second."

Tintin stretched as much as he could and watched as the Captain filled the petrol tank and, whistling, made his way into the shop to pay. On his lap, Snowy yawned and sat up, his tongue poking out of his mouth and his chest heaving slightly. "What's wrong?" Tintin murmured, stroking the soft, curly fur of the dog's chest. "Are you thirsty?" Snowy cocked his head. Tintin looked around and found a €2 coin in the door panel. It was enough to buy a bottle of water, and he had a travel bowl in the boot. He got out of the car and headed into the shop after the Captain.

**x**

"How can I help you?" The girl behind the counter had been polite enough to stop reading her magazine as she served the Captain. He was, as far as he could tell, the only customer in the shop.

"Quiet in here, isn't it?" he said by way of conversation. Behind the girl was the cigarette machine and shelves of alcohol. He scanned the shelves carefully. He'd thought about this: if he used the mini-bar in the hotel, Tintin would probably realise he was drinking again. It was safer to buy a bottle now and smuggle it in with his luggage. "Give us a bottle of Loch Lomond… and twenty Johnny Blue."

"We don't sell John Player," the girl said, bored.

"Fine. Uh, how about tobacco?"

"Loose?"

"Yeah." He drummed his fingers against the counter.

"Yeah." She made no move to get the tobacco.

"Then I'll have a packet of tobacco," he said pointedly. He rolled his eyes as she finally got up from her seat and set about filling his order. Behind them, the door _dinged_ softly as it opened and another customer came in. The Captain turned and saw it was Tintin.

_Uh-oh! _

There were a few shelves of goods between them, with the biscuits and the magazines so far acting as a barrier. Tintin looked over, nodded and went to the tall fridges beside the door. The Captain grinned and hoped he didn't look too much like a maniac. Keeping an eye on Tintin, he leaned over and tried to hail the girl. "Hurry up!" he hissed.

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What size bottle?"

"What? Uh…" He glanced back: Tintin was examining a bottle of water. "Just a normal one."

"Red label or black?"

Tintin had picked up a second bottle and was comparing it to the first. "What's the difference?" the Captain asked.

"Red label is cheaper."

"Whatever. Fine. Yes."

"Red label then?"

"Yes. _Yes. _Just… hurry it up will you?"

"D'you want a bag?"

"Yes. No, not that see-through one: one of the heavy ones." Tintin had made his selection and was wandering over. "Abort!" the Captain hissed. "Abort!"

The girl looked at him as though he was insane.

"Forget about the whisky! Just give me the tobacco!"

She placed the bottle of Loch Lomond on the counter in front of him, and took a step backwards, eyeing him. Tintin looked at the bottle, and then at the Captain. Then, with the practised art of someone who had spent a lot of time in heavy queues while on the way to work, he simply leaned over, scanned his bottle of water and deposited the €2 on the counter beside the bottle of Loch Lomond. He nodded politely to the girl, turned and left.

**x**

Outside again, Tintin opened the boot and rooted out the travel bowl. It was round and made of waterproof material, and folded up easily so it could be stowed in the pocket of a backpack or a jacket. He put it on the ground beside the car and poured half the bottle of water into it. Snowy drank greedily, his tongue lapping noisily. When he was finished he belched wetly and wandered off to mark a small white van as his own property. Tintin drank the rest of the water. When Snowy was finished relieving himself, the teenager got back into the car and the dog jumped in on top. A second later, the Captain got in to the driver's seat.

"Right," said the Captain.

Tintin said nothing.

The Captain started the car and moved it to the parking spaces at the side of the forecourt, freeing the petrol pump up for whoever needed it. "Right," he said again.

Tintin stayed quiet.

"Force of habit?" the Captain tried. "Y'know, I asked for a bottle before remembering that I don't drink."

"Are you drinking again?" Tintin asked.

"It's not that simple."

"Yes it is: it's a yes-or-no question. Are you drinking again?"

_It shouldn't be like this! _the Captain thought. _I'm the adult! I should be in charge! _"I'm not answerable to you," he said stiffly.

"No, you're not," Tintin said agreeably. "But we made a deal, or so I thought. I kept my side of the deal: I want to know if you kept yours and took another dose of Unaddikt.."

"No," the Captain snapped. He waited for the row to kick off.

"Ok." Tintin looked away. He got himself comfortable and scooted Snowy so that the dog's thin, pokey elbows weren't poking him too uncomfortably, and put his seatbelt on.

"I got you a lollipop," the Captain said meekly. He held it out. "It's, er, green flavour."

"Thank you, Captain." Tintin took the lolly, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth.

"You're very calm."

Tintin shrugged. "What can I do? I can't go back in time to stop myself from keeping my end of the bargain. I can just learn from it."

"Oh yeah?" The Captain started the car again and pulled back out. "What did you learn."

"Well, for a start, not to trust you again!"

"Oh come on!" the Captain scoffed. "I told you that nothing would happen. Did anything happen?"

"No, but that's not the point. You gave me your word and then you broke it. One thing, Captain, just _one thing, _and you couldn't be honest with me about it."

"You're making a big deal out of this."

Tintin shrugged. "Fine, I'll stop."

He didn't speak for the rest of the journey.

**x**

They pulled up outside the hotel an hour later. The evening traffic had been heavy with people going home from work and they'd crawled through parts of the city that had been stuck in gridlock. Now, the Captain was just grateful to be able to get out and find a comfortable place to sit. Tintin, on the other hand, was curiously mellow. For the last fifteen minutes alone he had been playing with Snowy's ears with a sort of fascinated curiosity.

"We're here," the Captain said after a few minutes of watching him.

"Boop!" Tintin said, tapping Snowy on the nose.

"Are you ok?" the Captain asked cautiously.

Tintin looked at him and smiled widely. "I'm perfectly fine. Sort of… floaty."

"Right."

"And happy."

"Right."

"Aren't Snowy's ears strange? Even when you put them up, they still flop down."

"Uh-huh. They've always been like that."

"I know. But I've only noticed now." He lifted Snowy up a little and planted a kiss on the dog's head.

"Riiiiiight." The Captain put his hand out. "Do you still have the wrapper for that lollipop?" he asked, as an idea struck him. Tintin dug it out of his pocket and handed it over. The Captain examined it. "I thought as much," he muttered.

"What?" Tintin asked with a smile.

"Never mind. Come on, let's get inside."

"There's people," Tintin said, nodding at the window. The Captain looked around and saw that Frankie and Danny were standing at the door to the hotel. Frankie still looked dishevelled and unshaven. Tintin opened the door and almost fell out. "Halloooo!" he cried, waving. He wobbled over to the other Haddocks and extended his hand. "Nice to see you again."

"Is he stoned?" Frankie asked, directing his question to the Captain.

"Nooooo!" said Tintin. "Never. I don't take drugs. I'm firmly against drugs."

"Yes," the Captain said sourly. "I accidentally gave him a hash lollipop."

Tintin burst out laughing. "You didn't!"

"I did. Sorry about that."

"Oh, I'm going to be really annoyed with you in a while. But right now, I want some pizza."

**x**

They had reserved a suite on the fourth floor. There were three large bedrooms, a central room with expensive couches and a huge television that came out of a wooden cabinet when a remote control was pressed in a complicated way, and a bathroom with a hot-tub.

"…and to turn the DVD player on you press menu, hold the 'down' button until the screen cycles through the options, press 8, press the menu button again, and then type the code '295', then you…."

The Captain stopped listening as the manager continued to press buttons. He'd never remember all that, anyway. He looked around. Tintin was lying on the couch with his hood over his head, his face hidden, growling menacingly at Snowy. The dog was stalking over, head down, waiting to pounce playfully. Danny was lurking over by the door, looking nervous, while Frankie had flopped straight into a chair and was staring stonily out of the window.

"And that's how you open the sunroof!" the hotel manager said brightly. He grinned at the Captain, who looked surprised.

"What?"

"The sunroof," the manager repeated his happy smile faltering slightly. Usually, people were very impressed by that. He pointed up. Overhead, half of the ceiling had magically pulled back to show an expanse of sky. This was the problem with being wealthy, the Captain had realised: when you paid top dollar for something, people felt they had to justify the price. The Captain didn't care though: he had just wanted a private suite with more than one room and an internet connection, where Tintin could work late into the night without disturbing any of the other guests and where the Captain could sit and relax without having to put up with the tedious small talk of strangers.

"Great," he said. He handed the man a €100 note, took the remote and shooed him out. "Send food up," he added before closing the door in the man's startled face.

"Do you need to see the menu?" the manager called sheepishly though the wood.

The Captain sighed and opened the door again. "Send up pizza. No pineapple, no anchovies. Just cheese and pepperoni. Yes?"

"Yes!" the manager said, brightening back up. "Our chef is Italian, so it's authentic, rustic, stone-baked" –

"Great." The Captain closed the door again.

"Do you realise how rude you are?" Frankie asked suddenly.

"Do you realise how little I care?" the Captain asked rhetorically. "Look, I've driven a long way today. I've been up since the crack of dawn. I want food, and I want to relax. Does anyone know how to close the roof?"

"What happens now?" Frankie asked. "Do you have a plan?"

"We need to wait for Cheech there" – he nodded at Tintin, who had been pounced on and was giggling as Snowy attempted to dig him out of his hoodie – "to come down from cloud-cuckoo-land before we do anything. What about the police? What are they doing?"

"They've finally registered her as a missing person, but I don't know what they're doing now." Frankie shrugged helplessly.

"What about this boyfriend of hers? What's-his-face?"

"They talked to him but he has an alibi."

"And he couldn't tell them anything else?"

Frankie shrugged. "He didn't tell them anything else. Whether he knows anything else is anyone's guess."

The Captain eyed the giggling Tintin. "Then I suppose it's time to start canvassing the neighbourhood."


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

* * *

Tintin woke slowly, with a fuzzy head and a mouth as dry as cotton. His main memory of the night before was one of sleepy contentment. He'd simply eaten almost a full pizza to himself and watched a film on television. _Time wasted, _he thought to himself. A small ember of anger blossomed. Hash lollipops? Who on earth gave unsuspecting people hash lollipops? Those things were lethal: a couple of licks over the space of a night was enough to get anyone stoned. One lollipop in one go, eaten by someone who didn't take drugs was too much. He was surprised he wasn't feeling even worse. As it was, it was like a mild hangover.

He really, _really_ wanted a can of Coke.

He got up with a groan and wandered out into the main room of the suite. Snowy was stretched out asleep on the sofa. He put his head up when he saw his master and yawned happily, his tail starting to wag. For a second, Tintin wondered why the dog was sleeping here. Usually he slept on Tintin's bed, or wherever Tintin was sleeping. Then, as Tintin's feet came in contact with the cold carpet he understood. He looked up. The roof was open for some reason, and the room was a lot cooler than the bedrooms were. Snowy, drawn by the cooler air, had slept there in peace.

The carpet was wet with dew. Tintin spent a few futile minutes searching for a way to close the ceiling, but gave up after a while. He opened the door to the balcony and watched while Snowy relieved himself on a potted plant. When the dog was finished the teenager set about his own morning business, helped along by a cold can of Coke liberated from the mini-bar.

By 9am he was slipping out of the suite, careful not to wake the Captain. The man's snores rose steadily from his own room. This morning was not a morning for the Captain. There was already time lost due to last night's mishaps, and Tintin didn't have any more time to waste. Not when someone else's life hung in the balance. The stakes were just too high.

He bought a coffee and the morning newspaper from a kiosk and wandered slowly towards the nightclub called _Valkyrie. _It was far too early for Doctor Müller to be there – the club would be shut up until the afternoon, most likely – but Tintin had more to do than just interrogating Müller. He found a bench opposite the nightclub and sat down. Snowy plonked himself at the teenager's feet and lay down to continue his sleep. The road was busy enough – morning traffic in a city was always busy, and it would get busier as the day went on – but there was a clear view of the club from where he sat. More importantly, anyone inside the club had a clear view of the bench and its occupant.

He took a sip of his coffee and opened the paper, and began searching through it for a tips hotline. There was always a hotline for tips.

The police were doing what they did best: they were assuming it was a case of a young girl running away and soothing the parents as best they could. Too much time had been wasted, and not just by Tintin and hash lollipops. It was time to start putting pressure on people. He found the number and dialled it quickly on his mobile phone. It answered after a few rings.

"Yes?" a bored-sounding man answered. Tintin switched to Dutch and started talking.

"Hey," he said. "Did you know a girl went missing almost a week ago?"

"So?" the man replied.

"Her name is Georgia Haddock. Her friends and family call her 'Georgie'."

"And?"

"Her uncle is Captain Archibald Haddock. He and Tintin have just arrived in Amsterdam."

"What?" The man sounded interested. Tintin could imagine him sitting up a little straighter as the story of a life-time dropped into his lap. It was almost a wrench to give it away to another reporter. "How do you know this?"

"Trust me," Tintin said. He'd feed a few details to the newspapers over the next day or so, making sure a media storm was whipped up, igniting people's attention and righteous indignation. "Can you print a description of her? She's tall, blonde and very beautiful. She's a first year law student in Cambridge." They'd find her photo now, probably from her Facebook page or on one of her college's social networks. It would be printed in the evening news, and after that it would be beamed all over the world.

"Anything else?" the man asked excitedly. "What's your name? Do you have a number I can call you on?"

"There is something else," Tintin said. "Let them know that the police are in charge of the investigation. For now. Tell them that if she's released alive, nothing bad will happen. But if she isn't, then Tintin will tear them apart. He'll make it his life's work to ruin theirs. Got it?"

"Got it. Listen, can I call you back with some more questions? My editor will" –

Tintin hung up and put his phone away. He took another sip of his coffee and started to read his newspaper.

**x**

At 11am the cleaning staff arrived and went inside _Valkyrie._ Tintin put his newspaper down and stretched his legs out, giving them a full view of him. The tall man wearing a black suit that accompanied the handful of cleaning women stared at him for a few minutes. The women scurried inside the nightclub while the man idled outside, taking in the view of the busy road and the young man sitting on the bench, apparently without a care in the world. Tintin let him see the distinctive quiff of red-blond hair and the tell-tale white dog at his feet. When the man finally went inside, Tintin picked up the newspaper again and started on the crossword.

It wouldn't be long now.

**x**

An hour later a sleek red Jaguar pulled in to the alley beside _Valkyrie. _It disappeared as its owner parked around the back of the nightclub. Tintin folded his newspaper and put it neatly on the bench. His coffee, long empty, was tossed into a nearby rubbish bin. Sitting back on the bench, his arms stretched out along the length of its back, his legs stretched out in front, he waited. It was important for Müller to come to him: Tintin needed the upper-hand from the beginning. It was a power-play with Müller; it was always about power. Men loved power, and Müller in particular needed to be in control.

It was time to chip a bit of that control away.

The man himself stepped out of the alley a few minutes later. He was tall and, even from that distance, Tintin could see the distinctive thick, black beard. He wore a grey suit, impeccable as always, that was opened at the neck. He glanced around before crossing the road, approaching warily. He stopped near the bench, and looked down on Tintin.

"What do you want?" That same German accent. The same casual, debonair attitude. Tintin's fists _itched. _

This time, however, it was important that their meeting didn't descend into violence. This time, Tintin had to keep his power without taking it by force.

Tintin shrugged. "A tan?" he offered. He tilted his face to the sun, relaxing completely.

Müller gritted his teeth. "Why are you here?"

"I'm looking for someone," Tintin replied, his eyes closed and his face still turned to the heavens. He looked like someone that didn't have a care in the world.

"Whoever you're looking for, you won't find them here," Müller snapped. "Now go away."

Tintin shrugged and finally turned his gaze on Müller. His eyes were green and warm compared to Müller's icy blue ones. "Maybe not," he replied. "But I think you know more than you're letting on."

Müller snorted. "If you're talking about that girl who went missing, that Hancock girl" –

"Haddock," Tintin corrected. _Interesting, _he thought. _He doesn't know her name, but he was dating her. _

Müller froze. Tintin could see that the name had hit him like a ton of bricks. _She didn't tell him her real name, _he realised. _She hid that from him. He's just realised the significance of that now. _His work was done. He'd managed to spook Müller more effectively than he'd ever imagined he could. The man looked positively rattled. He stood up and nodded to him before sparing a look at his newspaper. "It's a shame her disappearance didn't make the papers," he said with a sad sigh. "I'll see you around." He walked away, Snowy trotting along at his feet. He quickly turned a corner and peeked back carefully. As he'd expected, Müller had taken up the newspaper and was quickly flicking through it. And, as expected, he found the page that had the hotline phone number printed on it. Ringed very deliberately, to show that Tintin had also seen it and had probably used it. Müller swore loudly and Tintin grinned and walked quickly out of sight.

He hoped Müller saw the phone number he'd scrawled under the hotline. He hoped Müller saw it and called it. It wasn't Tintin's phone number though: it was the international RickRoll'd phone number.

Power, after all, was mainly about mind-games.

* * *

**Author's Note:** it is actually possible for a dog to 'yawn happily'. Mine manages it every morning.

In the Hergé books, Tintin and Müller met face to face twice _(The Black Island and Land of Black Gold)_, and on both occasions they ended up in a fist fight. That's what Tintin is referencing when he says he didn't want this meeting to descend into violence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

* * *

Tintin let himself into the hotel suite to find the Captain awake. He'd seen Frankie Haddock downstairs in the lobby, using one of the pay-phones, so he wasn't wholly surprised to find Daniel sitting on the couch, at the other end from the Captain. The Captain wasn't dressed properly yet, and was wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt while shovelling a bowl of cornflakes into his mouth. He looked completely at ease, his feet up on the fancy coffee table, while Danny was perched nervously at the edge of his seat, his hands clasped and between his knees.

"Hullo," he said shyly.

"Hello Daniel," Tintin replied. "Good morning, Captain."

"'Morning," the Captain said through a mouth full of cornflakes. "You were up early?"

"Yes, I had some things to do this morning."

"I was surprised to see you were gone, so I had to get a replacement." The Captain jerked his head at Daniel, who grinned nervously.

"You must have been heartbroken to find I was gone." Tintin dropped into a chair and grinned at them.

"Oh, I mourned," the Captain said, pretending to wipe away a tear. "For about ten minutes or so. Then he came along and I was cheered up again. Go away, Snowy, I've nothing for you." Snowy was sitting primly on the carpet near the Captain. Convinced the Captain couldn't see him, even though the man was looking straight at him, Snowy tried a new tactic. He stood up, took a few steps closer, and sat down to beg again. "You're an idiot," the Captain said. "Look, it's cereal: you don't eat it." He held the bowl down so Snowy could see it and sniff the contents. For a brief second, Tintin thought about reminding the Captain that Snowy loved milk, but luckily that thought went away very quickly.

"Argh! He's drinking all my milk!"

"Careful, Snowy likes milk," Tintin said happily.

"Well I can't eat this now!" The Captain stared at the bowl in disgust. "Bloody dog. You might as well have it now." He put the bowl on the floor for Snowy and sat back, his arms folded across his chest. "He's a real greedy so-and-so," he added, miffed.

"You shoved food in his face!" Tintin said, laughing. "What did you expect?"

"Yeah, but he doesn't eat cornflakes. He just drinks the milk and leaves the cornflakes in a soggy pile on the…" He paused and chanced a look down at the already-wet carpet. "Oh, blistering barnacles!"

Tintin glanced down at the small, soggy pile of cornflakes on the carpet and sighed. He'd have to wait until they were dried and pick them out of the shag. He was an old pro at cleaning up after Snowy and the Captain.

"Right," the Captain said. "Here's what we do: when we leave, you go outside and start the car, and I'll just throw my chequebook at that lady in reception. While she's distracted I'll run for it, and you can" –

The toilet flushed. Tintin held his hand up to stop the Captain's scheming and counted the people in the room again.

_Daniel, the Captain, me, and Frankie is downstairs. _"Who's in the bathroom?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh." The Captain's face fell. "His mother."

"My mum," Daniel said timidly.

"Right. Have I met her?" Tintin leaned forward anxiously. "Do I know her name?"

"The Kraken," the Captain said quickly.

"Er, Julie," Danny supplied.

"Thanks. Hey, Daniel, how long have you been in Amsterdam for?"

"Um, a few weeks? Two. A little longer."

"Ok. And do you know where I can buy real weed? The proper stuff, not the chemical rubbish they sell in the shops."

"Uh, no. Not really. My aunt only smokes the stuff you buy in the shops."

"She still at that?" The Captain had found the morning newspaper and was reading it. They could barely see the amused look in his eyes over the top of the flopping-down paper. It was the English _Guardian_. Tintin knew without having to check: a millionaire can always find a willing hotel employee to make sure they get their morning news. "By thunder, I would have thought she'd have grown up by now."

"You know my aunt?" Danny asked.

"Hill?" The Captain put the newspaper down a bit, so he could talk to them. "Yeah, I know her. Is she still a hippy, completely incapable of holding down a real job? When we were young, she was terrible for it."

"You were young?" Tintin asked.

"You cheeky sod. Yes I was!" The newspaper snapped up to cover his face again. It would have been dramatic, except it flopped back down a few seconds later. "I have very fond memories of your Aunt Hill," he added absently. "She used to wear short skirts and cycle her bike very fast."

"Charming," Tintin said. Behind the Captain, the bathroom door opened quietly and a woman came out. She was quite tall, with blonde hair that defied her age. She was dressed smartly, with a pair of simple black trousers and a light, knitted cardigan over a matching pastel-purple t-shirt. She wasn't young, but she wasn't old either: she was a middle-aged woman aging gracefully.

"Remember, lads," the Captain continued, "it's not the size of the bike, but what you can do with it. So to speak."

"Uh, Captain, maybe you should" –

"Mind you," he added thoughtfully, "I once had a girlfriend that told me size didn't matter."

"Er, good. But maybe we" –

"I still didn't like the fact that she had a penis though."

Neither Danny nor Tintin could stop themselves from laughing. Although once he'd seen the look on the strange woman's face, Tintin did try and smother his mirth.

"Is Julie standing behind me?" the Captain asked. Tintin nodded, unable to stop sniggering. "Oh good," the Captain said with a sigh. "How are you feeling now, Julie?"

"I was a lot better before I had to hear about your weird sexual perversions," the woman snapped. "Good grief, Archibald, the older you get, the worse you get!"

"It was a joke."

"I don't find it funny. Whatever you get up to in your own home," here she stopped and glanced at Tintin, "is frankly disgusting, but at least it's not shoved in my face."

Tintin looked at Danny. "I think that was an insult," he said mildly.

"How dare you?" the Captain said loudly. He got to his feet at once, and almost squared up to her. "How dare you say something like that!" He finally realised their height difference and remembered she was a woman, and stepped back so that he didn't appear so threatening. "You have an evil, spiteful little mind, Julie. You always did. At least I have a sense of humour!"

"I think someone's at the door," Danny said weakly.

"You and your sense of humour! Farts and toilets are not funny!"

"Oh? And what is? Four ugly women having sex in a city – Ah! I just got the title!"

"I'll get the door, shall I?" Tintin asked, waving a hand in front of the Captain, but it was no good: two expert arguers can rarely be thrown off course. Tintin let them have at it, airing a few decades worth of grievances, and let Francis Haddock in. "Hello," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Er," said Frankie, looking at his wife and his brother over the teenager's shoulder.

"Oh, don't mind them," Tintin said as he let Frankie in. "After all, they're not minding us."

"What on earth is going on?" Frankie demanded, ignoring Danny and Tintin.

"Your brother is a fool!"

"Your wife has no sense of humour!"

"Shall we go somewhere a bit quieter?" Tintin opened the door to his room and gestured to Danny, who got up at once. Snowy, now finished licking the bowl and siphoning the milk from underneath the cornflakes, trotted after them.

"How was your drive?" Danny asked as soon as Tintin shut the door. In the sitting room beyond, three voices argued on relentlessly.

"What drive?" Tintin looked at him quizzically before starting to empty his pockets on the bed. Danny watched as he took out a packet of rolling skins, a box of cigarettes, and a small foil bag with the word 'SMOKE' written on one side in red letters.

"I thought you drove here," Danny said anxiously, wondering what Tintin was doing. His Aunt Hill smoked the blue-coloured packet of 'Smoke'. "To Amsterdam, I mean."

"Oh, yes, we did. It was nice." Tintin flopped down on to the bed and pulled three skins out of the little pack and started to join them together. In half a minute he had two skins joined to make a longer one, with the third reinforcing them at the middle.

Danny sat on the edge of the bed, twisted around a little so that he could keep watching as Tintin rolled what appeared to be a joint. He did it quickly, as though it was as natural as… as… well, as natural as farting. "My aunt uses a machine," he said when Tintin was shredding a cigarette for tobacco.

"I don't have one," Tintin said absently. "I've always done it like this."

"You smoke pot?"

"God no!" Tintin looked up and shook his head, amused. "Why would I do that? It's a waste of money. And besides, it makes you smell bad." He opened the foil pack of Smoke and took an experimental sniff. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "And this stuff smells _foul. _No, Snowy, get your nose out of there!" He pushed the dog away from the packet. "At least with real weed it smells nice. Not so much when you smoke it and the tobacco starts to reek, but proper weed smells good."

"Does it?" Danny asked doubtfully. "Georgie had a little bag of proper green weed, and it just smelt a bit like…" He paused and tried to think of a better word, but failed. "Well, it smelt like wee," he admitted.

"Pissy-weed," Tintin said promptly, and laughed at the look on Danny's face. "It's as bad as it sounds, believe me! Urine has a distinct smell, so they use it to mask the stench of the weed. It helps them ship large amounts into the country. It's usually the best weed there is. Did Georgie say where she got it from?"

"Um, from that guy in _Valkyrie. _Her _boyfriend." _He said the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"You didn't like that guy?" Tintin asked. He paused and waited for Danny's answer. Sometimes, the best information came from people who didn't know they knew anything. Danny had probably already told the police everything he knew, but Tintin knew from experience that 'everything' wasn't _everything. _There were just some things you can't tell the police, or your parents. Like if your sister was taking drugs, for example.

"I didn't even meet him," Danny replied. "He came by a few times, but he didn't come on to the boat or anything. He dropped Georgie off on the dock, and picked her up from there. If she wasn't outside, he'd beep and she'd go out to him. Once or twice my aunt went out and talked to him, and she said he was nice, but I just thought he was sort of impatient, you know? Like, he hasn't even got the good manners to call to the door."

"It is rude," Tintin said quietly.

"Georgie said he was really sweet, and that he never lost his temper, but he looks like the kind of guy who'd lose his temper a lot."

"Yeah, he is." Tintin shook his head and went back to rolling his joint. He was only doing it now to make sure he _could. _This stuff was cheap and it was sold everywhere. If he wanted to buy information on the street, he'd need something better than this. This was the Big Mac of steaks: cheap and readily available at any time of the day or night. "Did he ever bring anyone else to the boat? Or did you ever see him with anyone other than your sister?"

"Just Veltje," Danny said with a shrug. "I think she was dating him before Georgie. But they fell out over him."

"Where does Veltje live?"

The bedroom door was flung open, to reveal Julie Haddock. "Come on, Daniel, we're leaving."

"Oh, don't be so flaming stupid!" the Captain called.

"Are you taking drugs!" Julie shrieked, catching sight of Tintin adding the chemical powder to the joint.

"No," he said innocently. "I'm just rolling a joint."

"Do you see this?" She turned and made a grab for someone, and the next second her husband was pulled into view. "He's in there, with _our _son, making drug cigarettes!"

"Er, Archie?" Frankie said. "He _is_ actually rolling a joint."

"Of course he is," the Captain replied, astonished at them. "You asked for his help, yes? Well, he has to go and find your daughter somehow."

"With drugs?" Julie cried.

"What else is he going to use? Persuasive words? If your daughter's been kidnapped by sex fiends" – here, Julie groaned and her hand flew to her mouth – "then the only way to find her is to go to really scummy criminals. Who do you think sells information? Drug addicts looking for their next fix, that's who. If he walks up to a bunch of junkies and offers a reward for information, he'll get mugged. If he gives them a joint first, they'll smoke it and calm down enough to tell him what they know. Then, he can hand over the money and walk away with his kneecaps intact. That all right with you?"

"He's not going to do that, is he?" Frankie looked from Tintin to the Captain.

"That's usually how I get information," Tintin admitted. "Well, some of it. You see, the only reason they're talking to me, or any reporter or cop, is because they want a hit but they have no money. If they can get the money without ratting on their friends, they will. If you give them a joint beforehand, they're more willing to talk to you instead of beating you up and just taking your money." He finished the joint and presented it to Julie with a flourish. "Ta-dah! What time is it?"

She looked at her watch automatically, too stunned to do anything other than obey. "Half past two."

"Fancy a walk, Daniel?" Tintin looked at Danny, who blinked in surprise.

"Er, ok?"

"Are you going to buy proper drugs?" the Captain asked, examining the newly-rolled joint. "I'm going too, if you are. You know I don't like you doing things like that on your own. Especially not in strange cities."

"I'm not," Tintin lied as he grabbed a hoodie and tied it around his waist. "I'm just going for a walk. You know: to get a feel for the city."

**x**

They sat on the bench outside _Valkyrie_, eating ice-cream cones and talking about nothing. Danny was a nice guy, if a bit quiet. Tintin began to wonder _why_ Danny was so shy. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked at last. "Or something?"

"What?" Danny looked at him, fright written all over his face. "N..no," he stuttered. "N..not at all."

"It's not like _that_," Tintin said quickly. "You know, like how your mother said? Me and your uncle, I mean. That's not it at all."

Danny relaxed and grinned. "I know that," he said dryly. "Dad said he's your legal guardian."

"He is. I'm too young to live on my own. Legally, anyway. So I live with your uncle and he doesn't get on my case. Well, not very often," he added.

"It must be nice, not having any parents," Danny said gloomily.

Tintin winced. "Hmm."

"Oh, crap! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!" Danny stared at him, horrified. The top of his ice-cream melted and plopped onto his shoe.

"Don't worry about it: everyone says that at some stage. Then they see the Captain dancing at weddings and they feel sorry for me all over again. Oh, heads up! We've been spotted!"

The door to _Valkyrie _opened and Müller came out. He waited until the road was clear before crossing over to them. "He looks angry," Danny whispered nervously.

"He does, doesn't he?" Tintin said happily. _I hope you phoned that number! _

"Is there a reason you're hanging around here?" Müller asked sharply when he reached them.

"I'm on holiday," Tintin replied.

"You? I doubt that very much."

"You've seen me on holiday before. Remember? When I went to England?"

Müller gritted his teeth and looked as though he was trying to stop himself from strangling Tintin. "Go away," he hissed. "There's no reason for you to be here."

"And the time I went to Khemed," Tintin continued. "Remember that? That was a fun trip."

"I remember," Müller said, narrowing his eyes. "I remember it well. And if you don't get away from my club, I shall… I shall call the police." Even as he said it, he knew how stupid it sounded.

Tintin burst out laughing. It wasn't even fake-laughter either: it was real, hearty gales of laughter that came from nowhere. Danny stared at him in astonishment.

"Listen to me, you little prick," Müller said. "You're supposed to be out finding Georgie Hancock" –

"Haddock," Danny corrected.

"Right. Whatever her name is." Müller waved his hand dismissively. "Go and find her, Tintin, and stop hanging around here."

"I think you know more than you're letting on," Tintin replied when his laughter had stopped.

"I don't know anything about Georgie's disappearance," Müller said shortly. "And you won't find her here."

"I just find it a little odd that the last time I met you, it was because you'd kidnapped someone," Tintin pointed out. "And here I am again: someone has been kidnapped and you're here. You're knee deep in it. You were seen with her almost every day for two weeks before she went missing. You were the last person she had been with before she went missing. She was here, wasn't she? And she didn't get home afterwards, did she?"

"I don't know where she is," Müller insisted. "You are wasting time if you think you'll find her here. She isn't with me." He turned on his heel and stalked away, across the road and into his club.

Something tugged in Tintin's mind. A thought he was starting to have. It wasn't clear yet, though. "He's on edge," he said, thinking aloud.

"He was really, really angry," Danny offered.

"Hmm. He was, but there was something else. He was angry at us, but he's annoyed about something else…" He trailed into silence, his eyes focused on nothing. He stayed like that for a few moments before visibly shaking himself back to the here-and-now. He smiled brightly at Danny. "Are you finished?"

Danny looked at his melted ice-cream. "Yeah," he said.

"Great. Now, how about that walk?"

"Ok, that sounds… um, nice."

"Good. So where's the Red Light District?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

* * *

By 6pm Tintin was standing outside _Valkyrie_ again. Loud music thumped from the speakers inside, flooding the sidewalk immediately outside. The Captain, Daniel and Francis Haddock were on the streets nearby, passing out flyers with Georgia's picture on them to the passers-by, in the hopes that someone might have seen her. Tintin had already handed out a stack of flyers himself, but so far they'd had no luck. Nobody's memory had been jogged.

On the plus side, the story had broken in the evening edition of the papers, and it was starting to appear on the television too. It was even on the Reuters website. By tomorrow, it would be all over the various news sites and Twitter, and other social network sites. With any luck, someone was starting to sweat.

The messages being put out by the news crews were the same: let her go and the matter would be dropped. If anything happened to her, Tintin would bring Hell down on the city's criminal underworld until he found the ones responsible.

He pushed open the doors to the nightclub and went in. There were very few people inside; just staff and a few noisy drinkers who were starting the party early. They were at a table near the dance floor, shrieking and necking shots like they were water. There was only one barman on duty, cleaning glasses and looking bored at the end of the bar nearest to his only customers. Upstairs, a door opened and a furtive man appeared. He looked around as he trotted down the stairs and walked by Tintin with his head down. Tintin watched him go.

_What's upstairs? _he wondered.

There were cameras all over the club. There were three above the long bar - one pointing towards the front door, two pointing at the dance floor and DJ booth; one pointing to a door hidden at the side of the bar; and another positioned to make sure it caught every person that went up and down the stairs to the second level. Tintin took them in quickly, noting their positions, and slid into a booth opposite the bar. He turned and looked at one of the cameras. It was practically pointing right at him, it's red light staring at him unblinkingly.

The barman, who was dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt, his muscular arms deeply tanned, looked over and shook his head. He touched his ear and said something under his breath, and Tintin knew that he was communicating with someone else.

Hopefully it was Müller. If a couple of bouncers showed up and started asking for I.D., he was screwed. The sign on the door said it was strictly over 18s. Tintin had no doubt that Müller didn't enforce that rule, but he would in Tintin's case.

He waited.

The door near the bar opened and Müller appeared. He looked annoyed, but Tintin was used to that. Müller never looked happy when Tintin was around. The man seemed to live in a permanent state of barely controlled anger. The German strode over and slid into the booth opposite Tintin. "Well," he said. "Back again."

"Yep," Tintin agreed.

"I could have you thrown out."

"You could. But you won't."

"You seem very sure about that."

Tintin nodded. "I think so. You're angry, aren't you?"

Müller raised an eyebrow. "The last three times I've been involved with you I've ended up losing everything and landing in jail. I have no intention of letting that happen this time. Go. Away."

"Tell me about your relationship with Georgia."

Müller made a dismissive noise. "She's nothing to me. I'm sorry that she's gone missing, don't get me wrong, but it's nothing to do with me and it's not keeping me awake at night."

"Then why are you on edge?"

"Because I don't like the police sniffing around my business. Or you, for that matter."

"Do you have anything to hide?" Tintin asked quickly.

"No," Müller replied sharply. "Everything is legal and above board."

"Really? So what's upstairs?" Tintin flashed him a grin and got up. Moving quickly, keeping ahead of Müller, he went to the stairs and started up.

"Do _not _go up there!" Müller shouted, following quickly, but Tintin was much quicker. He reached the first door and threw it open. A young man with jittery hands looked up from his seat on a couch. A bed stood behind him, and on the coffee table before him were small bags of white powder. One of the bags had been opened and the powder was arranged in lines on a tray. Tintin smiled and nodded at the man, ducked back out, and went to the second room where the scene was repeated. This time, however, there were bags of pills and pot mixed in with the bags of powder. The pot, he noticed, was green and had a distinctly authentic look about them, as though they'd been snipped off a plant not too long ago.

"Stop that!" Müller hissed, finally catching up. He reached over Tintin and pulled the door closed with a slam. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

"All legal and above board?" Tintin said with a laugh. "You just don't change, do you? In a country where cannabis is legalized, you _have _to start dealing in harder stuff, don't you? So what's in these rooms back here?" He charged away again, and flung open a door a few yards away. Inside this room was a bed. A young woman dressed in black lingerie was lying on it. She glanced up from her magazine and gave him a curious look. Once again, Müller slammed the door shut. Tintin gazed at him in wonder. "Do you have a license for your whores?" he quipped.

"Get out," Müller said through gritted teeth.

Tintin shrugged. "Ok." He made to walk past the taller man, but at the last minute Müller's arm shot out and blocked his path.

"What do you want?" the German asked quietly.

"I want the truth," Tintin replied honestly. "I want you to tell me what you know about Georgia and her disappearance."

"I've already told you: I don't know anything."

"And I don't trust you as far as I can throw you."

Müller smiled nastily. "Does anyone even know you're here?" he asked sweetly, the threat implicit.

Tintin laughed and pointed down to the main bar. "That might have been scary if the Captain hadn't just walked in."

Müller cursed when he turned and saw the Captain, Daniel and Frankie. The Captain looked up, saw them, and waved to Tintin. As Müller surveyed them sourly, Tintin pushed by and went back down to them. He knew Müller would follow, no matter how reluctant he was to talk.

"Everything all right?" the Captain asked. He was speaking to Tintin, but he was eyeing Müller with mistrust.

"Fine," Tintin replied with a shrug. "We're just going to sit here and talk."

"Are we?" Müller muttered as he approached.

"Yes," Tintin snapped. "Either that, or the police show up in a few minutes and you get to explain to them what's going on upstairs."

Müller rolled his eyes and took his seat in the booth again. Tintin sat down opposite and they resumed staring at each other.

**x**

"Is everything all right over there?" Frankie asked nervously.

The Captain signalled the barman and ordered a shot of whisky. "Fine," he said. "So far, anyway."

"That man doesn't look happy."

"He never looks happy, as far as I can tell."

"He looks like he'd happily kill Tintin."

"Nah," the Captain scoffed. "He'd give it a shot, but he's never managed it so far."

**x**

"How did you meet Georgia?" Tintin asked.

Müller shrugged. "She came here one night, and I was already acquainted with one of her group."

"This girl Veltje?" Tintin said, quickly pulling the name from his memory.

"Yes."

"Danny said you were dating Veltje before you started seeing Georgia."

Müller snorted. "I didn't 'date' Veltje: she's a whore. And who the hell is Danny?"

Tintin nodded to Daniel. "Georgia's younger brother. He said the two girls fell out over you."

Müller shrugged again. "They might have done. I'm sure I didn't give them any indication that I was interested in either of them."

"Danny said you saw quite a bit of Georgia. You saw her every day since you met her. And she wasn't a whore. You had to wine her and dine her."

Müller grinned nastily. "She was a whore in the bedroom," he said. "If you know what I mean." He winked.

Tintin stared at him for a second, then shook his head. "If she was easy, you wouldn't have had to put in so much time and effort. And if she gave it up to you on the first date, you wouldn't have taken her out again. You would have just called her for sex."

"Who's to say that I didn't?"

"A line of pubs, clubs, restaurants and other establishments that state clearly that you brought her out. A lot. To very expensive places. You were trying to impress her. You even bought tickets to the theatre for the night after her disappearance. Why the hell would you take a booty-call to the theatre?"

Müller said nothing. He narrowed his eyes and stared at Tintin.

"Tell me about Veltje," Tintin continued. "How did you know her?"

"She was one of my whores," Müller said flippantly.

"Was?"

"She… still is technically. But…"

"Yes?"

Müller growled. "This is none of your concern."

"Tell me," Tintin warned, "or the police will be arriving very shortly."

Müller rolled his eyes. "I haven't seen her," he snapped. "She went to ground the day Georgie disappeared."

"And you didn't mention this to the police?"

"No. I couldn't tell them."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I _bought_ Veltje," he hissed. "Do you understand know? I _bought _her. I paid money for her."

Tintin blinked. "You scumbag," he said at last. "I didn't think you could be any more of a scumbag than you already are, but congratulations: you are."

"Oh, shut up." Müller pinched the bridge of his nose.

"No, it takes a special kind of dedication to be such a horrible, disgusting model of manhood. You deserve recognition for this. You _scumbag."_

"Say it again," Müller warned. "Go on: I dare you."

**x**

"I don't know," Frankie said worriedly. "They don't look like they're having a nice conversation."

"I shouldn't worry about it," the Captain replied. "As long as they aren't kicking the hell out of each other, they'll be fine."

"Kicking the hell out of each other?"

"_Duck!" _the barman shouted. On instinct, the Captain dropped to the ground. A stool soared over his head and smashed into the drink displays behind the bar. Bottles shattered and glass flew everywhere.

"Oh for crying out loud!" the Captain roared. "Help me separate them!" Müller had Tintin in a headlock, but the teenager wasn't going to go down easily, and was pummelling the older man's kidneys. The Captain quickly jumped into the fray as the kicking, punching duo grappled their way out of the booth and into some clear space. He seized Tintin around the waist and lifted him clear off his feet as Frankie pulled Müller away.

"Grow up, the pair of you!" the Captain said as Tintin tried to struggle free.

"Get your hands off me!" Müller snarled, trying to wrench himself out of Frankie's grasp, but the Haddock had the inbuilt reactions of a shared family consciousness, and it was a family consciousness that knew how to handle a brawling drunk.

"Calm down," the Captain snapped. "What the flaming hell do you think you're doing? Brawling in public! You pair of fools. Are you calm yet?"

"Yes," Tintin said, his teeth gritted.

"Yes," Müller snapped.

Cautiously, Frankie and the Captain let go. At the bar, Danny risked straightening up from where he was curled protectively behind one of the tall, metal barstools. Müller and Tintin glared at each other as they slowly straightened out their clothing.

"You've made a very big mistake," Müller growled as he tugged at his collar, trying to line it back up properly, so he looked neat again. "Now get out of my club, and don't come back. I've given you all the help you deserve."

"Your help is toxic," Tintin replied darkly, "just like you."

"And thanks to your little temper tantrum, she'll probably never be found alive." Müller delivered this coldly, his eyes burning with anger. Behind the German, Tintin could see Frankie's face drain of colour. His eyes drifted over the smug Müller's face, and before he could stop himself his fist had shot out, catching the man on the jaw. Müller toppled backwards, taken off-guard and not expecting such a powerful right hook.

"I instantly regret that," Tintin said in a pained voice. He pushed his right hand under his armpit.

"By thunder, that's some punch!" The Captain stared down at the prone Müller in surprise. "Is your hand alright?"

"No, I think I've broken it," Tintin said. "Come on: let's get out of here."

**x**

"You want to tell me what the point of that was?" the Captain asked as he handed Tintin a bag of ice. They were back at the hotel, up in their suite. Frankie and Julie Haddock had gone back to the houseboat with Danny to prepare for a press conference that was planned for later in the evening. Now that the papers had picked up the story the police had capitulated and were actively trying to find Georgie. The press conference had been hastily organized, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

Tintin accepted the ice gratefully and winced as he placed it over his hand. His knuckles were bruised and raw – he'd taken the skin off with he'd delivered that last punch – and starting to swell. He didn't think anything was broken though: it just hurt. Badly.

He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought he could tell us something – anything. You see, I thought she was taken because of her connection to you… To me. But she didn't go by her real name when she was here. She was going by the name of 'Hancock', not Haddock."

The Captain shrugged. "So?"

"So… I think it was connected to Müller. A man like that makes a lot of enemies. I wanted to talk to him, but he just… he antagonises me."

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "He 'antagonises' you?"

"Yes. There's something about him: he has a very punchable face. Every time I see him I just want to smack him. I don't know why," Tintin said thoughtfully.

"Sort of like me and Ricky Gervais?"

"Exactly."

"So what now?"

"I don't know. Müller was actually our best lead," Tintin admitted. "If he annoyed someone enough that they'd want to hurt him, then we could go and investigate them. But he didn't give me enough information. I don't know who his enemies are."

"It should be easy enough to find out," the Captain said as he sat down. He put his feet up on the coffee table and toasted Tintin with a cup of tea. "Someone must know something."

They sank into silence for a while. Tintin looked preoccupied and the Captain knew him well enough to give him time to think. It was no good pushing him or interrupting him. He needed to work through the problem the same way he always did: methodically and logically. After about fifteen minutes, he tossed the bag of ice on the table and sat forward.

"I think this girl, Veltje, is our best bet," he said firmly. "She told people she was dating Müller. That might have been a cover, but she might have genuinely believed it. He bought her, did you know?" he added suddenly.

The Captain stared at him, horrified as he realised what it meant. "Bought her?" he repeated. "You mean… like, with money?"

"Yes. He paid money for her. She was bought and sold as a prostitute. When the girls are… trained in how to behave with clients, they're treated brutally. Most of the time they're just raped repeatedly until they give up hope and forget that they lived any other way. If Müller showed her any sign of affection – and he admitted that he was sleeping with her – she might have developed a form of Stockholm syndrome and genuinely seen him as a friend or a lover."

"That's disgusting!"

"That's what I said." Tintin gave a short bark of laughter. "That's what started our fight."

"You should have hit him harder!"

"I shouldn't have hit him at all." Tintin shook his head. "I may have made it harder to find Georgia, without Müller's help." It was rare he lost his temper these days, but he knew how to handle himself in a fight. Most people that took him on physically underestimated his strength and ability due to his size and age, but they rarely made the same mistake twice. They rarely got the chance to make the mistake twice.

"So how do we find this Veltje girl?" the Captain asked.

"I don't know," Tintin replied thoughtfully. "I wonder if Danny knows where she lives."

The Captain checked his watch. "That press conference starts soon: we're supposed to meet them down at the police station."

"Then we'd better get ready, and get down there."

* * *

Author's Note: This might not be updated every Friday for a while. Sorry, but it is the summer. But I'm not abandoning it just as it gets started. It's just that my time is limited and it's taking longer to write and edit each chapter properly.

Tintin and Müller have met face to face twice, but in The Red Sea Sharks it was Müller that ordered the arial attack on Tintin and the Captain, when they were travelling on horseback to meet with Emir Ben Kalish Ezab. Once Bab El Ehr's regime was overthrown, Müller (under the name of Mul Pasha) would have been thrown in jail until the EU and Germany would have been able to organize his deportation back to Europe. That's the third time he was in jail, in this universe.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

* * *

Müller sat alone in his office. The noise of the nightclub below him rose up around him, smothering him. He felt strange, and not just because he was pissing small amounts of blood and sporting a magnificent black eye, both courtesy of Tintin's fists. He felt claustrophobic; trapped. He could barely breathe at times. The club's accounts lay on the desk before him, ignored and unfinished. He couldn't concentrate. On the wall of television monitors the images of the revelry going on below him continued, unwatched. He didn't see the girl who had brought a bottle of vodka in with her, or the two meat-heads who were about to start trouble at the bar.

Georgie was just so beautiful. He couldn't take his eyes off her. And to see her on television was surreal.

Her picture was on the wall behind some people – he assumed they were her family. The mother, an older blonde with some of Georgie's beauty, was speaking slowly and haltingly, pausing frequently to swallow her sobs. The man, the same man who had been in the club with Tintin earlier, was white-faced and grim. His eyes were watering, and Müller knew he was barely keeping it together. He wondered, with an unfamiliar pang of guilt, whether it was his comment earlier that had undone this man.

Above their heads, a huge picture of Georgie beamed out at the whole world.

It looked almost like a candid shot. She wore a nice dress and a matching cardigan in light, pastel colours. Her hair was styled in a neat up-do that was probably held together with hairspray and a million invisible hair grips. She was laughing, but it was as though she was laughing at something else and at the last minute she had realised a camera was pointing at her and she'd tried to smile for that too.

She looked like the happiest person in the world. She looked like she belonged in a university somewhere, worrying about her upcoming exams and the boy who had asked her out. She looked as though she spent her free time in a café with friends, chatting and laughing and having fun, living her life like a girl in a Tampon advert.

One lock of blonde hair had escaped the hairspray and curled gently along the soft line of her cheek. It framed her face beautifully.

There was a knock on his office door, but the door opened straight away so it seemed pointless. Ivan breezed in and flung himself on the sofa. He regarded Müller cheerfully. "Fucking hell, boss, what happened to your face?"

Müller finished his whisky and put his head in his hands. "I think I'm in love."

"Fair enough. Is she hot?" Ivan glanced around and saw that the television was on. "Check out that bitch: she's hot," he added, pointing to Georgie's picture. He did a double-take. "Holy shit: isn't that your blow-job girl?"

"You're a real peach," Müller said as he got up. He was fairly drunk, but he thought he was still ok to drive.

"Her ass was a real peach. What happened to her? Why's she on the news?"

"I think I've fallen in love with her," Müller said as he left. "That's what happened."

Ivan went after his friend, who was attempting to make it down the narrow stairs without falling over. "You need help, my friend?"

"I need to find Georgie Hancock."

"And you know where she is?"

"No." Müller stopped when he reached the nightclub. The noise was deafening and the place was packed. He was remaining on his feet simply because so many people were walking into him and their bumps and jostles were keeping his swaying body upright. If there hadn't been a wall of people around him he would have been on his face already. He reached out and took a hold of one person; a young man with a stupid soul-patch beard and jeans that were ridiculously tight. "Do you know where Georgie is?" Müller asked.

"Who?" the man asked, confused.

"Georgie. Have you seen her?"

"Who the hell is Georgie?"

"Hey, faggot, get out of here." Ivan carefully unwound Müller's fists from the strangers t-shirt and pushed him away. "Don't do that, Müller. You don't know what you can catch from people like him."

"He's not gay," Müller said thoughtfully as he wandered to the bar. "That's how they all dress these days."

"I know. I just didn't want you to catch retardation from his stupid clothes. My man!" Ivan hammered on the bar. "Fetch me vodka! And some whisky for my friend, who thinks he's more sophisticated than me. Hey? Hey?" He elbowed Müller in the ribs. "We're going to get drunk because he's in love."

The barman came over at once. He carried a bottle in each hand; one vodka, the other whisky. He put them down and leaned over so he could talk to Müller. "I heard, boss. I'm so sorry."

"Do you know where she is?" Müller asked plaintively. _Man! I'm drunker than I thought! I'm begging douchebags for help! _

"No, but I hear Rae has been seen."

Müller froze. _Rae! _"I have to go," he said. He untangled his legs from the barstool and almost fell over. He started to stagger out the door. "I have to find Tintin. Or Rae."

"Are you ok to drive?" Ivan asked innocently as he took a pull from his bottle of vodka.

"I don't think so," the barman said in alarm. He eyed Ivan. "Why don't you put your drink down and drive for him?"

"Why don't you shut your fucking face and get me more booze? Isn't that your job?"

"And aren't you employed as a driver?"

Ivan thought for a second. "You make a good point, my tanned friend. Today, I won't kill you for annoying me."

"Thank you," the barman said, knowing full well that Ivan had killed over less.

"But if you talk like that to me again, maybe I will."

"I understand."

"Clever boy. Although I might just kill you because of that fake tan."

"Duly noted."

The next day when he showed up for work, the barman would be mostly white with some thin, red scratches from where he'd tried to scrub the worst of the tan off with a wire brush. He really didn't want to give Ivan a reason to kill him.

**x**

The hammering was insistent and annoying. It had also gotten louder since it started, which was only a few seconds ago. Whoever was on the other side of it desperately wanted to get inside. Tintin, his hair still wet from the shower, gave a shout of impatience as he moved to open the door.

"Give me a minute!" he cried.

"Put the chain on," the Captain said. He was peeking out of the bathroom, soaking wet with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Tintin rolled his eyes at the Captain's caution and opened the door. Müller almost fell on top of him. He managed to get out of the way at the last minute and Müller managed to keep himself upright by clinging desperately to the door frame.

"Ah good, you're here," said the German. "I need you to come with me." He took a hold of Tintin's wrist and did his best to straighten up.

Tintin shook his hand free and leaned forward. He sniffed. "Are you drunk?" he asked.

"Is he drunk?" the Captain demanded.

"That's not the point," Müller replied. "I need you to come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Tintin took a step back to take himself out of the drunken reach of Müller's arm. "What are you doing here?"

It took a bit of effort, but eventually Müller focused on him intently. "Rae is back. He was – is – Veltje's boyfriend. If anyone knows where Veltje is, it would be Rae."

Tintin looked at the Captain, who looked back. The Captain shook his head. "Call the police," he warned. "If there's any reason this Rae fellow would hurt Georgie, tell the police and let them deal with it properly. Besides, it's too late to go anywhere."

Tintin checked his watch: it was 11:30pm. The press conference had been at 8pm, and since 9pm they'd been at the police station. They'd only gotten back a half an hour ago. "There's nothing to tie Rae to Georgie," he said absently as he made up his mind. "There's only the coincidence that his girlfriend disappeared shortly after Georgie, and that the two girls had an argument shortly before that."

The Captain eyed Müller. "Yeah? Well, that sounds like too much of a coincidence to me. I'm sure the police would be interested in talking to this girl, what's-her-name. They'd pick up the boyfriend if they thought he could lead them to her."

"That could be…" Müller coughed as delicately as he could, "problematic. For certain other people."

"For you? Because you're a pimp?" the Captain said bluntly. "So what? That's nothing to me. If you go to jail too that's no skin off my nose, pal. Now." He shot a look at Tintin. "I'm going back in to finish my bath. When I get out, I want _him _gone." He jabbed his thumb at Müller.

Tintin waited until he heard the sound of the Captain sinking back into the bathtub (a combination of various grunts and exhalations set to the accompanying tidal-wave swash of water) before pushing Müller out of the suite. "Go downstairs," he said. "I'll meet you in the lobby in a few minutes. I just need to get a few things first. But I'm warning you: we do this _my _way. You won't lay a finger on Rae or Veltje as long as I'm helping you."

"I can't promise that," Müller said.

"You have to," Tintin said with a shrug. He shut the door in Müller's face.

**x**

When he got down to the lobby Müller was almost passed out on a chair. That hulking Russian – Ivan, if Tintin was remembering correctly – was lounging nearby, shamelessly eyeing up every woman that walked by him while simultaneously flirting with the girl on the reception desk. Tintin made his way over to them, dumping his satchel on Müller's stomach to wake him up. "He's not coming with us," he said, as soon as the German had his eyes open.

Müller glanced at Ivan, who was smiling disarmingly. "Ivan's fine," he said. "He's still sober. He can drive."

"I can drive. Give me your car keys." Tintin held his hand out.

"Ha! I'm not letting you drive my car! Ivan's coming, that's all." Müller sat back and grinned up at Tintin, satisfied. "He's a good man to have around," he added.

"A good man?" Tintin raised an eyebrow.

"Very. The most virtuous of them all."

"Right. He is?"

"Yes."

"He clubbed me over the head and knocked me out."

"Oh." Müller frowned. "Did he?"

"And tried to push me off a cliff."

"Oh."

"And shot at me a whole bunch of times."

"Yes…"

"And left me in a burning house, while I was knocked out."

"Yes."

"He almost killed a man stealing a train."

"You don't need to go about it…"

"A _train." _Tintin put extra emphasis on the word. Most people stopped at stealing cars, but Ivan was that special kind of person that figured it was better to be hung for a sheep than a lamb. "A _train." _

Müller nodded. "I get your point. Ivan, go back to the club. We'll be with you shortly."

"Whaaat?" A dark look crossed Ivan's face and he started muttering hastily in German or Russian: Tintin couldn't tell. He wasn't fluent enough in either language, and Ivan was talking too low and too quickly for him to hear properly. Müller snapped an answer back in the same language and Ivan shrugged, his face changing back to his usual handsome, happy countenance. "I go," he said simply. He looked Tintin up and down. "You are a lucky son of a bitch, anyway. The devil himself couldn't kill you. You are like Rasputin: it took them thirteen tries to kill that bastard." He stood up and slapped Tintin heartily on the back, almost knocking him over. Tintin had forgotten how bloody _strong _the man was! "I know I will see you later." Ivan nodded to them both and strolled away, pausing only to chat up a giggling young woman on the way out.

"Alright, let's go." Müller got to his feet and started to wobble away. Tintin caught up with him silently and deftly took the whisky bottle out of the man's coat pocket and deposited it on a side table as they made their way to the doors.

"Give me your keys," he reminded Müller as they got outside. "You're not driving: you're drunk."

"Pish! I bet you've been in the car when the old sailor's had a few." Müller tried twice to tap the side of his nose but missed both times.

"No," Tintin said. "He doesn't drink and drive. Give me the keys."

Müller rolled his eyes theatrically and handed them over. Tintin caught sight of the sleek key-fob with the Jaguar logo, and hoped he managed to keep his face blank as his mind whooped in celebration. He liked driving fancy cars, and Müller's was a beauty. Damn him: the man always had great taste in cars.

* * *

**Author's Note:** third time lucky...?


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

* * *

Tintin took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, leaving the drunken Müller behind. He ignored the lazy, irate shout from the German to slow down and jogged to the door that was numbered 205. He knocked politely and waited, a pleasant smile on his face, until he heard someone moving around inside the flat. He turned the smile up a notch or two when he heard the chain-lock being slipped into place and seconds later the door opened a crack. The suspicious face of a good-looking young man peered out at him.

"Hi," Tintin said brightly. "I'm looking for Rae."

"Who the hell are you?" the young man asked, his eyes narrowing as he stared back.

"My is Tintin," Tintin replied. He waited until the realisation hit Rae before continuing. "I'm not here to cause trouble," he promised. He held up his hands to show he wasn't armed. "I just need to talk to you."

The man – Rae – glanced nervously from side to side. "I can't talk to you." He made to close the door but as he did so, Müller's hand came out of nowhere and pushed it back open. The tall German forced himself in front of Tintin and stared at Rae.

"Open. The. Door."

Rae whimpered and leaned on the door, trying to close it. Bigger and stronger, Müller leaned back, and it didn't budge an inch. Tintin sighed and shook his head. "He can't," he said quietly.

"I can't!" Rae agreed, almost sobbing.

"Why not?" Müller barked.

"He's put the chain on and he has to close the door to take it off."

Müller stared at the chain. It winked at him in the light. "Oh right," he said. He straightened up and grinned at them. Tintin slammed his foot into the space of the door before Rae had a chance to shut it on them. "You're going to take the chain off and open it fully to let us in," he said. "We are not here to hurt you: I just want to speak to you."

"But he" – Rae began, his eyes darting to Müller.

"Ignore him," Tintin said. "I won't let him hurt you."

Eventually, Rae nodded. "Ok," he said. "I'll let you in."

The bedsit flat was dirty. That was the first thing Tintin noticed. He let his eyes sweep over the scene, taking everything in as he soaked up information. Dirty clothes spilled out of a hamper beside a door that probably led to the bathroom. The small kitchen table – more of a breakfast bar than a table – was covered in bad-smelling take-away containers and the dishes were piled in the sink. The room itself smelled stale and Rae was unwashed. He was nervous and twitchy as he led them to the sofa. He flopped into it and put his head in his hands.

Tintin cleared a space on the coffee table and sat down directly in front of the young man. "I need your help," he said, keeping his voice low and calm. Rae was on the very edge – a bit-part player caught up in something much bigger than himself. He needed a way out, and Tintin was willing to give it to him. People like Rae never intended anything: they went along with ideas until they realised there were consequences that affected other people. Like a million and one other young men, Rae wasn't a bad guy: he was just a complete idiot.

"I can't help you," Rae said morosely.

"I think you can," Tintin replied. "I don't think you meant for anything to happen, did you? I think you were doing your girlfriend a favour because you love her, and now I think you're in a lot of trouble."

Rae sniffed and straightened up. He did a good job of looking like a tough-nut, but the fear was still there in his eyes. "I didn't do anything," he tried. "And you can't prove I did anything."

Behind him, Tintin heard Müller's strangled noise. He automatically put his hand up to warn the German to stay back. He knew – _knew – _he could reach this one. "I don't think you meant to do anything. I don't think you're a bad guy, Rae. I think you're just someone who would do anything for his friends."

"Yeah," Rae agreed. "I would."

"Georgie was your friend."

Rae started to squirm. Tintin could see the conflicting emotions warring on his face. He pushed on.

"She went out with you, didn't she? She laughed with you, drank with you, bought drugs from you. She's a sweet girl, isn't she? A little bit younger, yes, and very impressionable. She looked up to you, didn't she? She probably even had a crush on you at one point. Does she deserve this?"

Rae's face crumpled. He ducked his head and hid the tears that leaked out.

"She's alone and she's scared, Rae. She's so scared. Your friend. You know that Veltje went through this too, don't you?"

Rae's head shot up and all trace of sadness and tears were gone. He stared at Müller, stony-faced. "Yeah," he snapped. "She was taken, and she was held, and she was tied to a bed and raped over and over for weeks and months. And that bastard did it!" He stood up and pointed at Müller. "He did it and he didn't even care."

"I didn't do that!" Müller cried. "I just bought her on the other end!"

"You're not helping!" Tintin snapped. "Go wait outside."

"No body; no evidence," Rae said smugly.

Müller's scream wasn't made of words, it was simply rage and frustration given voice as he lunged over the coffee table and landed on Rae. Tintin froze, the words spinning through his head.

_No body; no evidence. _

Another dead girl he couldn't help.

He felt sick. The faces of the dead – too many to count – swam in front of his eyes and he had to blink them away to focus on the scene at hand. Rae was back on the couch, pushed there by Müller's wild punches. "Where is she?" the German was screaming. "What have you done to her? I'll kill you! _I'll kill you!" _

"Get off him!" Tintin grabbed Müller by the waist and hauled him away, and received a stray elbow to the face. His eye exploded in bright white lights and pain, but he grit his teeth and clung on until they both fell back in a tangle, landing on the coffee table. It disintegrated under their weight, dumping them onto the dirty carpet. From this close angle Tintin could see the burn marks from cigarettes and hot-rocks that had fallen from countless joints.

"Let me go!" Müller howled. On the couch, Rae broke down and started to sob, still pleading for his life.

"I'll let you go when you calm down," Tintin snapped back. "Now calm down: you're lying on my balls!"

Müller stopped struggling and Tintin let him go. They got to their feet and looked around. Müller was breathing heavily, his expensive shirt and suit in disarray. The coffee table was basically kindling, and Rae was senseless. "I said we do this my way," Tintin said crossly. "Nobody gets hurt."

"He deserves it!" Müller shot back.

_No body; no evidence. _

Tintin looked at Rae and balled his fists, fighting the urge to strike the young man. "We do it my way," he managed to bite out.

"Your way doesn't work," Müller growled. He took Tintin by the arm and marched him to the door.

"Don't do this," Tintin said, trying to squirm away. But this time Müller's grip was firm. Whether he was sham-acting drunk or had just sobered up a bit, Tintin didn't know, but if it was the former Rae was in a lot of trouble. "If you do this, you're hurting our chances of finding Georgie, you _know _that. Please, don't do it!"

"Wait outside," Müller said shortly. He pushed Tintin through the front door and closed it firmly behind him. Tintin hammered on it as the chain-lock slid home. "Open the door!" he shouted. "Please! Don't do this! You're making a huge mistake! Please!"

The row erupted. Tintin could hear the sound of solid blows landing and eventually Rae's screams for help mingled with his pleas for mercy. With a cry of frustration, Tintin slapped the door solidly once more before digging in his pocket for his mobile phone. His thumb shaking, he misdialled on the first go. Chiding himself, he tried again and was connected to the emergency services straight away. He gave the address and asked for the police and an ambulance: there was a terrible fight going on and it sounded like someone was getting murdered. He held the phone up, so the noise of Müller and Rae could filter back to underline the seriousness of the situation, before promptly hanging up before he was asked to give any details about himself.

He felt awful as he turned and walked quickly away from the flat and from Rae. His stomach churned. He _hated _this. He hated walking away from someone getting beaten up for any reason, and he hated that Müller had probably blown their chances. With Rae at least. Now, Tintin had to preserve the other lines of inquiry he could take. But if he was here, and the newspapers reported that he was here, with Müller and the police and Rae, nobody would speak to him. Not even the scummiest, immoral, desperate junkie would talk to him if they knew he was here: none of them would want the police near them, and none of them would want to end up like Rae.

But if it meant finding Georgie, then Rae can take a beating. Besides, it sounded sloppy. Tintin had been on the receiving end of quite a few beatings, and those had been methodical: designed to scare. The pain had been delivered in an escalating spiral that encouraged one to speak up early to avoid more. Müller sounded like he was just laying into Rae with his fists and feet. There was no elegance there. It was the same as any Saturday night brawl: Rae would be bruised but able to walk and brag the next day. A _proper _beating left you shamed, bloody, and lying in one place for a hell of a lot longer.

He was on the street now, the night air cooling his cheeks and the back of his neck. A squad car, the lights blazing and the siren screaming, tore by him, an ambulance hot on its heels. Rae was probably safe, then.

_No body; no evidence. _

It was the first time Tintin had seriously entertained the possibility that Georgie was dead. Or was she? No, she couldn't be: that's not how these things went. Usually, they didn't kill the girl until she was a husk of a creature, or her mind had broken. That took years of brutal treatment in illegal brothels and back-rooms.

Unless Veltje had just killed her.

The thought pushed its way free from the others. He had tried to suppress it – he'd succeeded in keeping it quiet all day – but it was there. Oh, God, it was there, and it made sense. Veltje was angry and jealous. Angry and jealous twenty-odd year old girls don't go for elaborate set ups: they just kill whoever pissed them off before breezing on to the next bit of entertainment. Surely it was more likely that Georgie and Veltje had rowed again and, in a fit of temper, Veltje had hit Georgie – the death itself was probably accidental, a symptom of the blow or her head hitting off something hard as she'd fallen – and Rae had helped her get rid of the body.

He leaned against the wall of a grey-bricked apartment building and sighed. _Poor Georgie. You poor, poor girl. But at least if you're dead nobody can hurt you. After all, some things are worse than death. _

He couldn't believe how calm the sky looked. The stars were bright and the moon hung low in a sharp, white crescent. It looked distant, yet close. Cold, but comforting. There was an unyielding beauty to it; it was the oft-loved lady that observed all dispassionately.

"I think I've gone mad," he said aloud to the empty streets. _But at least I'm calm about it, _he added silently to himself.

**x**

"Thundering typhoons, where the hell have you been?" the Captain demanded angrily. "And what happened to your eye? It's bright red!"

Tintin had just entered the hotel suite. The Captain was fully dressed and Frankie and Danny were there. Georgie's mother and aunt weren't, though. "What's going on?" he asked. It had taken over an hour to walk back. Snowy was jumping around his legs, annoyed that Tintin had gone out without him but happy to see him back.

"Do you know what time it is?"

Tintin glanced at his watch. "Yikes. Sorry. I went out for some air."

"The hell you did!" The Captain stood up from the couch and planted himself in front of his ward. "What happened? We've had the police on to us: some guy who knew Georgie got battered half to death by that fool Müller. What happened?"

"I don't know," Tintin lied with a shrug.

"What do you mean you don't know?" the Captain snapped. "You left here with him, didn't you? I got out of the bath and you were gone" – He paused as the slow realisation overtook him. "Are you lying to me?" he asked, astonished.

"That's a bit rich coming from you," Tintin said, amused. He picked up Snowy and let the dog lick his cheek as he held him.

"Did you find anything out?" Frankie Haddock asked. Tintin gave the man his full attention. Frankie looked terrible. He looked like he hadn't slept in a while. _Of course he hasn't, _Tintin's brain reminded him. _Would you? _

"Not yet," Tintin said quietly. "I'll keep trying though. But I think we have to try somewhere else." He turned back to the Captain. "I'm going to have to buy real drugs tomorrow. Just weed, though."

The Captain winced. "Fair enough. I still hate this, though."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And we're not through on the lying bit, either. I want to know what happened."

"In the morning," Tintin promised him. "I'm too tired to go through it all now. And I need some time to come up with another plan."

"Fine." The Captain looked mollified. "Well. G'night then. We can talk in the morning. Er, you don't mind Danny taking the other single bed in your room, do you? Just to give his parents a bit of space, mind."

Tintin smiled nicely at Danny. "Of course not. I'm glad to have you staying with us, Daniel."

"Right. Good." The Captain nodded at them both. "Then I'll see you in the morning, Tintin. And remember: you're not going to get any drugs without me. You know I hate you being around dealers on your own."

"I wouldn't even dream of it," Tintin said virtuously.


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

* * *

"Sit," Tintin whispered. At his feet, Snowy sat. Tintin backed away through the open door. The dog stared at him, his tail wagging and his body shaking with anticipation. Slowly, Tintin shut the door. Behind it, Snowy let out two high-pitched barks of confusion.

"_Whoa! Whoa!" _

"Shhh!" Tintin opened the door quickly and tried to quieten Snowy down. The dog stood up immediately and crowded around his master's ankles as best he could. It was difficult, becoming a crowd when you were an extremely small dog, but somehow Snowy always managed it.

"Um, are you going out?" In the spare bed, Daniel sat up and looked at Tintin, who froze. He had hoped Daniel was a heavy sleeper, like the Captain was, but that didn't appear to be the case.

"No," Tintin lied unconvincingly. He was fully dressed in a hoodie, brown cords and his tennis shoes. He looked down at himself for a fraction of a second. "I mean, yes," he whispered quickly. "I'm going for a jog."

"It's four in the morning," Danny pointed out. He hugged his legs and regarded Tintin. "And you're not really dressed for jogging. Is this something to do with my sister?"

"No, I just enjoy jogging."

"Then I'll come with you." Daniel threw the blankets back and stood up, pulling on his jeans over his boxer shorts.

"Alright." Tintin held his hands up in defeat. "You've seen through my clever fib. I'm going out but you can't come with me. I have things to do."

"You're not going out on your own," Danny replied as he pulled his jacket on.

"Believe me, nothing will happen. I just need to speak to a few people, that's all."

"Then I'll come with you and make sure nothing goes wrong."

"No, honestly: it will be fine. You should stay here."

"Look, I'll make it easy for you," Danny said patiently. "If I stay here, I'm going to wake up my uncle. If I go with you, he stays asleep."

"You'll actually rat me out?" Tintin asked, incredulously.

"Absolutely. Maybe if I'd ratted out Georgie sooner she wouldn't be missing and we wouldn't be in this mess." Danny grinned at him and shrugged. "The choice is yours, of course."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Fine. Come with me if you like, but it's not going to be interesting. In fact, it'll be very boring."

"Boring is good: it suits me. I'm much happier when bad things aren't happening."

Tintin thought about this for a second. "That's a good philosophy to have, I suppose," he admitted. "Just do me a favour and don't encourage Snowy: it'll be hard enough leaving without him barking down the whole hotel."

**x**

"How was I supposed to know?" Danny asked for the fourth time. They were outside now, walking along a deserted street lined with shops and pubs. Snowy trotted ahead, sniffing lampposts and marking his territory.

"I'm just saying: you might have realised that saying 'good boy' in that tone of voice would encourage him," Tintin replied shortly.

"I don't have a dog," Danny protested. "I've never had a dog. I have no idea what they want or what encourages them."

"Closing the door _before _the dog leaves is generally agreed to be the best way to keep them in."

"Sorry."

"Make a note and remember it for the next time." Tintin picked up his pace and jogged along the street, crossing the road and entering the long, grassy park through a small side gate that creaked loudly in the still, night air. It was colder now, and both were glad they had worn warmer tops than usual. Danny paused to zip his jacket closed before following Tintin as quickly as he could. By the time they were half-way through the park he was already panting, while Tintin had barely broken a sweat.

"Hang on," Danny gasped. He slowed down and waited for Tintin to stop.

"You're really bad at jogging," Tintin pointed out.

"I know," Danny said with a groan.

"What would you have done if I was actually going for a quick run?"

"Look like an idiot?" Danny bent over and grabbed his knees as he huffed for air. "I have a stitch."

"Shh!"

Danny tried to quieten his breathing as Tintin adopted a listening pose, his head tilted slightly to one side. At his feet, Snowy stared into the darkness ahead, the scant, ornate park lampposts spreading shallow pools of light that didn't seem to break through the shadowy landscape. A few seconds passed before he could hear what they were hearing: the sound of high-heeled shoes on the paving underfoot. It was some distance away, but coming closer. Eventually the texture of the shadows changed and a person became visible, hurrying towards them. As the figure passed under one of the few lights, Danny could see that it was a woman in her late twenties, perhaps, dressed like a prostitute in a short, tight, barely-there dress. She raised her eyebrow when she spotted them, her mouth automatically setting into a grim line. When she spoke, it was in Dutch, and Daniel was surprised when Tintin answered her in the same language.

"Looking for fun, boys?"

"We're always looking for fun."

She slowed down and cast an appraising eye over them. "Fine. I'll do you both but you have to pay. Cash up front."

Daniel's eyes widened when Tintin took out a wad of euro notes. "I'm not looking for sex," Tintin replied, still speaking Dutch. "I'm looking for information."

Shut out of the conversation, Daniel watched them argue back and forth. The woman was flippant, almost angry at Tintin for some reason, but he wheedled and persisted so much that eventually she threw her hands in the air and took the few notes he'd peeled off and held out to her. She snapped something at him before storming off, throwing dark looks at them from over her shoulder. Tintin turned to Danny with a grin. "Well, we know where to go to get real drugs," he said. "Are you up for it?"

Danny shrugged. He was starting to feel nervous now: he had no idea it would be this easy. He'd once tried to buy cannabis at a small gig where every single person had been smoking it, and had still failed miserably. He'd given up believing in the so-called drug epidemic. "I guess," he said doubtfully.

"You can always go back," Tintin said, his voice serious. "This sort of thing isn't for everyone."

"No, I'm fine. Let's go." He walked past Tintin, his head held high in determination.

"You're going the wrong way."

"Oh. Right. Well, lead on."

**x**

They ended up in the red-light district. Tintin pulled Danny to a stop before they entered the alley the prostitute had told them about. Light still spilled from the doorways and windows of the legal brothels, and compared to the rest of the city this was a hotbed of activity considering the time of morning. "I need you to keep watch," Tintin said in a quiet voice. "Just shout if you see something strange."

"Like what?" Danny asked nervously.

Tintin stared at him for a second. "A policeman?" he said at last. "A police car? Anyone coming with baseball bats? You know, the usual?"

"The usual?" Danny gulped.

Tintin grinned. "Don't worry. It'll only take a few seconds. We should be gone before the car that's been following us arrives."

"We're being followed?" Danny squeaked as he turned around in a full circle, his eyes searching the streets and buildings around them. He hadn't noticed a thing, but now that he thought about it, there did seem to be the sound of a car engine on every street they'd walked so far.

"Don't worry about it," Tintin said cheerfully. "We're not dead so they're obviously not looking to kill us."

"Oh, God!"

"Just shout 'sketch' if you see anything, ok?"

"Sketch," Danny repeated. "Ok. I can do that."

"Good for you." Tintin patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. "I'll be back in a minute." He tipped Danny a wink and disappeared into the alley.

"Looks like it's just you and me," Danny whispered to Snowy.

Snowy wagged his tail politely and followed Tintin.

"Damn it!" Cursing under his breath Danny stamped his feet nervously, trying to get some warmth back into them. It wasn't cold – dawn wasn't too far off judging by the chorus of birds that had started up a few minutes ago – but his nerves had made his face bright red while the rest of his body broke out in a cold sweat. He was starting to think he wasn't suited to this sort of lifestyle. Besides, he'd been around Tintin a few times now and he still hadn't asked all the questions he'd wanted to ask. _I'd make a rubbish reporter, _he thought morosely. _I bet Tintin would have asked a load of questions, if he was me. Although if he was me I'd be him, and he'd be a rubbish reporter too. _

A car door slammed. Danny jumped and looked around, peering into the alleyway. Tintin was talking to two young men – both looked young enough to still be in their teenage years – and was standing with his back to Danny. He looked completely at ease. A few seconds later laughter wafted out of the alley. _How can he do that? _Danny wondered. _How can he crack jokes with drug dealers? I wouldn't be able to: I'd be too scared. _

"You're in my way."

The voice came from behind Danny. Still looking at Tintin and the two youths, Danny murmured an apology and got out of the way. As he turned, his eyes widened at the sight of the tall, blond Russian man he'd seen hanging around _Valkyrie _and Müller. The tall Russian flashed a disarming smile at him and walked into the alleyway.

"Sketch!" Danny whimpered, his voice inexplicably turning high-pitched. "Sketch! Sketch!"

"Hey!" The tall Russian strode to Tintin and the two youths, who looked at him in alarm. Tintin's mouth opened in a perfect 'O' of surprise. His eyes darted to Danny, who was clearly panicking and still hissing "Sketch! Sketch!" over and over.

"I see him," Tintin called, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Good job, Daniel." He gave Danny a thumbs up.

"What are you doing?" Ivan asked. He glanced at the young drug dealers and burst out laughing, pointing at the small bag of weed they were holding.

"Why are you here?" Tintin shoved a fifty euro note at the two youths and took the small bag from them. "What do you want?"

"My friend Müller comes to me and he says; 'Ivan, I trust you. I trust you to follow Tintin and tell me where he goes.'"

"Now you know," Tintin replied as he pushed the small bag of weed into his pocket. "You can go away now."

"Give him back his money," Ivan said to the two youths. "What are you selling to him? You think he's a mug? That's worth €25, tops."

"I can give him change?" one of the youths offered.

"Fuck your change: give him his money and get out of here."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the other youth asked indignantly. "Do you know who we work for?"

Ivan looked around. "Is it that kid there?" he asked, pointing at Danny.

"No, of course not!"

"Well, the person you work for isn't here, and can't stop me from beating the shit out of you now, will they?"

The youths exchanged glances. "No," the second admitted. "But he'll be annoyed later."

"No he won't. I will tell him; 'they are mouthy little shits that rip off their customers.' He will be pleased I taught you what's what."

"This isn't worth the hassle," the first hissed to his friend. "Just give him back his money and get them out of here."

"We are leaving now," Ivan agreed, nodding. He waited until the €50 note was passed back over to Tintin before manoeuvring him away.

"What are you doing?" Tintin hissed.

"I'm saving you money," Ivan said pleasantly.

"I don't need you to save me money!" Tintin dragged his arm out of Ivan's hand and faced him down furiously. "I need to make contact with criminals that can help me. Why won't you people understand that? Why can't you just leave me alone and let me get on with my job?"

"Me?" Ivan looked offended. "I don't even fuckin' know you! When have I interfered?"

"Not you specifically," Tintin replied through gritted teeth. "I just want everyone to… to go away and let me work! Go on! Go away!"

Ivan stared at him blandly. Eventually, his huge shoulders came up and he made a comical, confused face. "You want me to leave; I leave."

"And tell Müller not to have me followed: it just gets in my way. Tell him that if he wants to get Georgie back alive, to leave me alone."

"Ah, his blow-job girl! I see. I will tell him. He will not be pleased."

"I don't care."

Ivan shrugged again. "I don't care either, but this is how the deck of cards has fallen. We neither of us give a shit, but always we are dragged into other people's problems. Ok, so I go now. And you are left alone." He glanced at Danny, who was grim-faced and leaning against the wall as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Well, almost alone." He turned back to Tintin and whispered, in a concerned voice; "You want me to take him with me? I bring him to strip club, get him drunk… He'll be fine. And you can work faster."

"No!" Tintin said quickly. "Leave him alone. He's ok."

"Good!" Ivan flashed a grin at them both. "I like to hear this. Ok, Superman, I leave you alone. But with one warning: you fuck up and make things worse, I rip your fucking arms off and beat you to death with them."

Danny attempted a polite laugh.

"You don't believe me?" Ivan turned to him, genuinely surprised. "I can prove it. Hey! Little faggots, come here and I kill you. Just for a second. It won't hurt much." He beckoned to the two drug-dealing youths in the alley.

"Go away!" Tintin snapped. "We get the idea."

"Muh," said Danny, staring in horror at Ivan.

"Good. I leave you with one more thing: go to the fat Dutchman. That fucker, Van Sant. He knows more, the fat bastard. And if you are nice to him, he can introduce you to more criminals, other than these two idiots. Yes? You go and find him."

"Where is he?" Tintin asked doubtfully. "Surely if you know who he is, this Dutchman, Müller would have gone to him before now?"

"Müller fucked up a while ago. We broke that fat bastard's sausage fingers. He won't help Müller. But" – Ivan flashed his winning grin again – "you he might like. You he might help. It's worth a shot, yes?"

"Yes," Tintin said thoughtfully. "It might be."


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

* * *

The address Ivan gave him led Tintin to a club in the heart of the Wallen. _Kabouter, _as it was called, was in front of one of the canals that wound its way through the centre of Amsterdam and the city's red light district. But where _Valkyrie _was in the city proper, bordering the district and catering to a tourist trade and the city's trendy youths, _Kabouter _was older and slightly shabbier; _Valkyrie's _jaded older brother.

The outside of the club was nondescript, and while Müller employed large men in suits to act as bouncers, the men that lounged outside _Kabouter _were rougher and older and a lot less-well dressed. Inside the club the furnishings were run-down and some of the booths and chairs were leaking stuffing. The barman was in his middle years, with a large beard and an ugly scar that twisted his left eye down into a severe droop.

"Don't stare at anyone," Tintin whispered to Danny as they reached the bar. The club was sparsely populated, but considering that it was almost dawn outside it was surprising to see that it was still open. But Tintin had heard a lot about the thriving criminal scene of Amsterdam, and about how openly they were allowed to operate. Thankfully, now, the city was working to reclaim the area from the less-desirable elements, which meant that half the windows in the Wallen were filled with scantily-clad girls, while the other half had been reclaimed by up-and-coming fashion designers and models, and used as displays for clothes and instillation art.

The lights in _Kabouter _were low, barely illuminating anything. Danny had to strain to see the people sitting in the corners. "I won't stare," he whispered idly. "Don't worry."

"You're staring now," Tintin said pointedly. Danny visibly jerked himself out of his reverie and mumbled an apology. Tintin shrugged at the bartender, who had wandered over and was glaring at them. Tintin cleared his throat and leaned over the bar as casually as possible.

"I wonder if Mr Van Sant is available?" he asked in a low voice.

"No," the barman said at once.

Tintin thought about this for a second before nodding. "Ok," he said evenly. He pulled a pen out of the barman's shirt pocket and scribbled something on a discarded napkin that was stained with lipstick and a red liquid that looked like wine. He folded the napkin and handed it to the barman along with the pen. "Can you tell him that Tintin stopped by? This is my phone number if he would like to arrange a meeting. Tell him I don't mean him any harm; I just need to ask one or two questions."

"Tintin?" the barman asked doubtfully. He eyed them with renewed interest.

Tintin held his hands up in supplication. "I'm not here to cause any trouble," he said firmly. "I just need some help and someone told me he was the man to go to. If I'm wrong: fair enough. I'll go away. But if he thinks he can help me, please tell him to phone me."

"Well, all right then," the barman said. He tucked the napkin into his pocket and moved away.

"And I'll have an orange juice," Tintin added. "Daniel, do you want a drink?"

"Uh, I'll have a Coke?" Danny replied hesitantly.

"And do you have any crisps? I'm hungry." Tintin turned to Danny. "Are you hungry? I think Snowy's hungry too."

The barman levered himself onto the bar and looked over it, down at Snowy who was sitting at Tintin's feet ignoring everyone. "No dogs," he said.

"Then you'd better go give my message to your boss," Tintin said, tipping the man a cheeky wink. "The sooner he knows I want to talk to him, the sooner the dog is out of the bar, no?"

"You mean… You want me to go tell him right now?" The barman let himself down from the bar and looked at them, shocked.

"Absolutely."

"I can't do that! He's in a meeting."

"Then I'll stay here until he's not. Right here. In the middle of his nightclub." Tintin busied himself by looking around. "It's a nice place. I might even come back. Later. With friends."

"I'm going, I'm going!" the barman said hastily. He signalled to a bored looking waitress who slouched over slowly. "Stay here and keep an eye on things," he hissed at her, gesturing with his eyes at Tintin. He hurried away and the woman took up his station, her arms draped lazily over the beer taps. She looked from Tintin to Danny. "Aren't you two a bit young to be in here?" she asked.

"What's going on?" Danny asked.

Tintin screwed up his face as he switched from Dutch to English. "He's going to see if we can have an appointment with this Van Sant man."

"Really?" Danny brightened up. "You have a real gift with people."

_It helps when the 'friends' I'll be returning with are the police. _"I really do," Tintin replied, radiating innocence.

Ten minutes later a door opened somewhere at the back of the club and a small group of men trouped out. Seconds after that, Tintin's phone began to ring. He answered it quickly.

"_You are still downstairs?" _an unfamiliar voice asked.

"I am," Tintin replied, correctly assuming it to be Van Sant.

"_Two men are coming your way. Give them your phone and follow them." _The call disconnected and Tintin shrugged at Danny.

"Looks like we have our meeting," he murmured. True to Van Sant's word, two men had appeared from the darkness and were making their way over. Both were in their thirties and dressed head to toe in black. Tintin shook his head when he saw them. "Some people have to advertise what they do for a living," he said with a sigh. He switched his phone off and stood up, holding it out to the two men. The men looked at one another before one took the phone and put it in his jacket pocket.

"This way," the man grunted.

"You should stay here," Tintin said to Danny as he followed the men. "I won't be long."

"I'm not waiting here on my own!" Danny sounded scandalised. He quickly hurried after the small entourage. They receded into the shadows and were ushered through a plain door that led to a narrow corridor that contained a staircase. Here, the men stopped, and Tintin and Danny did the same. One of the men, the one who took Tintin's phone, stared at Danny.

"Who is he?" he demanded.

"What's he saying?" Danny hissed.

Tintin gestured at Danny. "He's my cousin," he lied.

The man shrugged. "Up against the wall. No weapons."

"Turn around and face the wall," Tintin whispered to Danny. He quickly faced the wall and rested his hands against it, and was glad to see Danny do the same without any questions. He felt firm hands patting him down. When the men were satisfied that they carried no weapons, they were brought up the stairs to another, larger corridor. They were brought along the corridor until they reached the last door. Here, one of the men knocked and waited until a soft voice called out before opening it and ushering Tintin and Danny inside.

Ivan had called Van Sant fat, but to apply such a word to the corpulent man that sat behind an ancient metal desk was somehow underestimating his girth. He was huge. His neck disappeared into rolls of fat that continued around the back of his head. His suit – which looked older and cheaper than Müller's stylish, tailored suits – was stained yellow under the armpits with ancient and new sweat stains. The collar of his pink shirt was worn, with threads coming loose from over-use, and his yellow tie was stained with a large, brown blob that looked like coffee. Sweat beaded on his skin. In the corner, an ancient standing fan whirled mechanically, and did nothing other than spread the stench of body-odour and farts through the stale air. Tintin kept his face perfectly arranged, but he didn't have to spare Danny a glance to know that he had wrinkled his nose and pursed his mouth.

The huge man leaned back and put his hands behind his head, and surveyed them with interest. His cold, brown eyes were so dark that in the dimly lit office they looked almost black. His eyes drifted from Tintin to Danny and back again.

"Well, well," he said. He pushed his chair back and stood up, his face wrinkling like an old fruit into a friendly smile. But in the instant it had taken for the smile to take over, there had been a flash of cunning in his dark eyes that had almost taken Tintin aback. He knew this man. Not personally, but he knew other men like him. They looked like clowns; loveable rogues with a hidden heart and a warped sense of morality. The worn clothes added to this, to present a down-at-heel figure that clung desperately to the criminal fringes, trying to make his way in a hard world. One would look at him and assume that his heart was in the right place, and that he would help a person out if he was fond of them. Loyalty could be earned.

But that was an act. The eyes had revealed the true man, and it was a calculating, shrewd monster that lay within. Strip the clothes and the veneer of the fat, jolly old gangster away and you would find a ruthless killer lying in wait. The pretence of civility and jocularity would last as long as you were useful, and you were so taken in by the act that you wouldn't realise anything was wrong until you felt the knife in your back. The cheap clothes could be an affectation – a part of the act – but Tintin knew that even millionaires could be misers.

It was a mistake to bring Daniel this far, he knew. He only hoped the boy was wise enough to reserve judgement.

"So you are Tintin." Van Sant came around the table. He walked slowly, like a man aware that he was prone to waddling, and took pains to make sure he didn't do it in public. He held his hand out and Tintin took it, expecting to shake and be done, but Van Sant held on. "Never did I think you would be in my establishment," he said, amused. "This is truly and honour, no?"

He was taking pains to speak in English. Not for Tintin's benefit, and Tintin doubted if it was for Danny's either. It was probably because it made him look friendlier, and the broken sentences added to the veneer of harmlessness. He beamed at Danny as he finally let go of Tintin's hand. "And who is this? Your cousin?" He winked and wagged his finger at them. "This is a lie, I think, yes? You, the great Tintin, is alone in the world, no? Except for the man Ramó Nash. Oh!" He clapped his hand over his mouth, as though he had made a terrible faux pas. "Forgive me, I do not mean to" –

"He is my guardian's nephew," Tintin said smoothly.

"Ah, this man Haddock, no?" Van Sant gestured to the two hard-backed chairs that stood in front of the desk before making his way back to his own seat. "Sit, sit," he said as he sank back into his chair with a soft chorus of grunts and squeaks. "No need to be so formal. You forgive my mistake, and we will be great friends, no?" He looked from one to the other, and Tintin had to give him credit: he was so convincing his eyes twinkled with happiness at their visit. He tented his fingers and looked at them patiently. "I like surprises," he continued, "but I am a busy man. Yes?"

Tintin glanced at Danny before switching to Dutch. Yes, he was shutting Danny out of the conversation, but he had to try and rattle this man. Van Sant had been a criminal for so long that he knew perfectly what he was doing. He wouldn't slip up and give them information unless he wanted to. Tintin had to keep him off balance; he had to prove that he wasn't a naive innocent willing to swallow any old tripe. "I see you met friend Müller," he said, gesturing to Van Sant's hands: two of the fingers were in splints and three more were wrapped in careful bandages. Ivan was good: the broken and injured fingers were spaced out over his two hands, to afford maximum irritation and pain during the healing process, long after the initial beating had worn away. Constant pangs of humiliation served as reminder for his trespasses. Rae was truly lucky that Müller had brought Tintin with him instead of Ivan. He pointed to his own black eye. "So have I."

Van Sant narrowed his eyes and looked at Tintin speculatively. Eventually, he sighed and started to speak, answering Tintin in his native Dutch. "These young men, they think they know everything. They think they understand. They use violence when they should use words, and they have no respect." He leaned back slightly and twisted his chair from side to side idly. "You have an artist's hands, Mr Tintin. Did you know that?"

Tintin frowned slightly and glanced down at his own hands, which were laid flat on Van Sant's desk.

"The fingers are slender; delicate. They are the hands of a dreamer; of a man who doesn't know what it is to work with his hands. My hands." Van Sant laid them flat on his desk too. "My hands are big hands, no? These are not the hands of a dreamer, Mr Tintin. They are the hands of a working man. Not quite a labourer, but perhaps a butcher. You understand?"

Tintin understood. He nodded, and switched back to English. "Thank you for meeting with me, Mr Van Sant." He stood up and nodded to the man. "We won't take up any more of your time."

"Don't mention it!" Van Sant beamed at them. "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any use."

"Don't worry about it."

"We're going now?" Danny asked, clearly relieved. "Thank God for that. If we're lucky we might be able to sneak back in before anyone sees we're gone!"

Tintin winced and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"You snuck out?" Van Sant looked at them shrewdly. "So nobody knows you're here? Interesting."

"We'll just be leaving now." Tintin hooked his hand into Danny's arm and pulled him backwards to the door.

"What's the hurry?" Van Sant asked innocently. "Would you like a tour of my club?"

"No, thank you," Tintin replied quickly as he pushed Danny out of the room. "We've already taken up far too much of your time."

The two men that had been guarding the door looked in at their boss enquiringly.

"Nonsense," Van Sant said. "Gentlemen," he added to his two employees, "why don't you take these boys down to the cellar? I'd like them to remain as our guests."

One hand dropped onto Tintin's shoulder, and he reacted instantly. His elbow shot back, jabbing the man sharply in the stomach. As he gasped and curled down, Tintin jabbed his elbow again, up this time. It connected with the man's face and he went down, crying out in surprise. "Run!" Tintin cried, pushing Danny ahead of him. "Just run, damn you!"


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

* * *

They ran. When they reached the stairs down, Tintin grabbed the back of Danny's jacket and yanked him away, forcing him on and up the stairs, towards the roof instead of down to the bar that was filled with Van Sant's men. They'd never get out that way: if they tore through the main room of the club someone would have tackled them by the time they'd reached the bar. But if they got to the roof, they could use the fire escape to reach the street safely, and once on the street Tintin was sure they'd stand a better chance at outrunning any pursuers.

They reached another landing. Behind them, the sound of feet on stairs became louder and louder. Tintin had started to outstrip Danny by now. He was by far the more athletic of the two. But whatever happened he couldn't leave this place without Danny. That just wasn't an option. But Danny was starting to slow, and he was gasping for breath. At their feet, Snowy was bounding and barking like a maniac, like it was just another game. "Tssh!" Tintin hissed at the dog. Snowy, looking hurt, quietened down.

They turned onto a third landing, and their hunters were getting closer. They could hear shouts now, as more people joined the chase. Tintin tread water at the top of the stairs as he looked around. They could go up, but he had no idea how tall this building was. It was taller than six stories, from what he could remember from looking at the façade, and they were on the fourth. Danny wouldn't make it to the sixth, and then up another set of stairs to the roof. Tintin made a decision and opened the door closest to them and dodged in, pulling Danny along behind him. Holding his hand over Danny's mouth, he hissed at him to be quiet as, from outside the room, a large group of people thundered up the stairs and… kept going.

_Oh, thank God for that! _

Tintin let out a silent sigh and took his hand off Danny's mouth. He pressed his finger to his lips and indicated that they should be quiet. Danny turned to look at him, and his eyes widened in shock. He was staring over Tintin's shoulder. "V-Veltje?" he asked in a small voice.

Tintin looked around. He had been so busy trying to make sure they weren't caught that he hadn't even had time to take stock of their surroundings. They were in a small, narrow room. There was a chair beside the door and a single bed took up the rest of the space. Lying on the bed was a body. Whether it was a man or a woman, Tintin couldn't tell: it looked more like a lump of mangled mince-meat. He approached it haltingly, and as he got closer to it he realised it had once been a human being.

"That's Veltje," Danny whispered.

"How do you know?" Tintin asked doubtfully.

"Her clothes: I recognise that t-shirt. She lent it to Georgie. And her hair. I think that's Veltje!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down." Tintin bent down closer to the body on the bed. If it was Veltje, she was in a bad way. She was on her back, on top of the bed covers. Her jeans were open but pulled up to cover most of her lower body. The t-shirt was red and tight, but was pushed up to just under her breasts, showing off her toned, bruised and beaten torso. The face was a mess. The eyes had been blacked and had both swollen shut. Her nose was almost flat against her skin, and her mouth looked lop-sided and strange. She was covered in bruises and cuts, as though she had undergone extreme brutality. The skin on her face, throat and the tops of her breasts were covered with a thick, dried white substance that Tintin supposed was ejaculate.

He tentatively reached out and gently felt for a pulse.

There wasn't any. Her skin was already cold to the touch. She had been dead for a while. He shook his head. He was tired. She was so young and stupid, and now she was dead. She could have gotten away from all of this – Müller had given her her own flat and a level of freedom that other girls could never expect to get – and she had chosen to stay with this life. She had chosen to inflict this life on other girls, and now she had paid the ultimate price.

His hand wandered up. Her mouth bothered him. He carefully pushed her lips back, and saw that her teeth were all missing. Not even stumps remained. The gums were black and bloody, and the blood had congealed. They had ripped her teeth out to stop her from biting anyone when they placed their member in her mouth and fucked her face.

He wanted to go home. Not just to the hotel, but all the way to Marlinspike Hall. He wanted to go home, get into bed, pull the covers over his head and pretend that this wasn't his life.

"Is she dead?" Danny whispered.

Tintin had almost forgotten him. He was standing over at the door, holding Snowy. He was hugging the dog, probably for comfort, Tintin guessed. "Yes," he said sadly.

"So she can't help us?"

"No."

Danny went silent. He looked at the body; a sad testament to mindless cruelty and the destructive side of power. "Is this happening to my sister?" he asked, his voice tight.

Tintin shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I hope not."

Danny nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he tried to swallow his angry tears. He swiped at his eyes savagely and turned away. "We should go," he said gruffly.

"Yes, we should," Tintin agreed. He moved forward, shutting off his thoughts and concentrating on the problem at hand. He couldn't do anything to help Veltje, but he could get Danny and himself out of here in one piece. There was no way he was sending Frankie and Julie Haddock home with no children. He put himself in front of Danny and opened the door a little before peeking out cautiously. Things sounded quieter now: the men had gone up, leaving them a few minutes to get down. And if they got down, there may be a second door out of the place, perhaps in the beer cellar. They had to load and unload girls and booze somehow, and Tintin doubted if they brought it all in the front door.

He crept out onto the landing and beckoned for Danny to follow him. Carefully, they snuck down the stairs. Every so often Tintin would pose and listen hard, but the only sound they heard was the tinny music that was being piped into the bar down on the ground floor.

When they reached the second floor, he kept one eye on the door to Van Sant's office as he ushered Danny down. They reached the ground floor again and Tintin pulled Danny to a halt before he could run straight out into the club. For all they knew, the front doors could have been locked by now to cut off their escape route, but there would be so many people in there that he didn't dare trying it. He pointed down the corridor, and gestured to Danny that they should remain quiet. Danny nodded grimly and allowed Tintin to lead them away from the club.

There was one door here, and it was the storage room. Tintin quickly ushered Danny into it and closed the door behind them. He felt for the light switch and when he found it the room was bathed in yellow, artificial light. There were crates and crates of beer and wine and spirits, all stacked neatly in rows. And there, high up on the wall, was a window. Tintin thanked his lucky stars and went to it.

And that was the main disadvantage of being short: he couldn't reach it. "Help me move this box," he whispered. "Carefully." Danny grabbed one end of it while Tintin grabbed the other. Together they lifted it up, wincing as the glass bottles within chinked lightly against each other. They carried it as silently as they could to the window, and placed it down on the floor beneath it. Tintin hopped up on it and fiddled at the window. The frame had been painted many times, and now the paint had sealed the window shut. He placed the heel of his hand against the window and started to push. A few flakes gave way but the window stayed closed. He snarled at his luck and started to thump the window with his hand. After two or three tires, it flew up and open. He jumped back to the ground and forced Danny onto the box, taking Snowy from his arms. "Go," he hissed.

"You're coming too, right?" Danny asked, scared.

"Yes, but you go first!" Tintin linked his hands together and boosted Danny up. The boy struggled to get out of the window: he'd clearly never had to make a quick escape before. He grunted as he tried to manoeuvre his body in such a way that he didn't tip headfirst out of the window and onto the pavement.

Outside the door, someone gave a shout.

"Go! Go!" Tintin hissed. He reached up, planted his hands on Danny's backside, and pushed him through. Danny shouted as he pitched forward, and his legs disappeared through the opening.

"Quick! Take Snowy!" Tintin jumped back onto the box and held Snowy up. After a few seconds, Danny's hands appeared and took a hold of the dog. Behind Tintin, the door burst open. He looked back over his shoulder to see a tall, pale-skinned man wearing all black standing in the doorway. _"He's in here!" _the man bawled. _"I got him!" _

Tintin swore under his breath and jumped up, grabbing the window frame with both hands as he dragged himself up. He pushed his head and shoulders through, with his stomach against the bottom wood of the frame, and looked down. Danny was shouting something at him, still holding Snowy in a tight embrace. Just as Tintin pushed forward, fully expecting to greet the pavement with his head, rough hands grabbed at his waist and pulled him backwards. Danny caught a flash of fear and surprise, and then he was gone.

* * *

**Author's Note:** three chapters today to try and make up for the awful neglect this story has received over the last two months. But it's the only story I'm concentrating on from now on, I promise. And hands up who else had forgotten that Danny's mother was called Julie? *puts up hand* My bad.

**Chp 17: **There's a subtle reference to the animated series of Tintin hidden in this chapter. Kudos if you get it. ;)

**Chp 18:** When Tintin was describing Van Sant's character, the _Tintin Universe_ villain I had in mind was Maurice Oyles from _Tintin in America._ Body types apart, his overly friendly behavior towards Tintin is similar to what Van Sant wanted to achieve. Tip of the hat to _Flight 714_ and Lazslo Carreidas in that monologue too.


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

* * *

"So, what did you do on your holidays, Danny?" Danny muttered as he hurried along, head down with his hood pulled up to cover his face. "Well, I lost my sister and Tintin, thanks for asking. Oh, shut up, Snowy!"

Snowy looked up with an expression of hurt on his face. He was trailing slightly behind, crying plaintively. He didn't like this: Tintin wasn't here. They'd left Tintin somewhere and that didn't suit Snowy in the slightest. Furthermore, he was harbouring a suspicion that _this_ young human didn't know what it was doing.

Danny agreed with that: he didn't know what he was doing.

It was now 7am and the city was really starting to wake up. In about an hour the roads and paths would be crammed with people on their way to work, or tourists on their way to their new destination for the day. Danny envied them. They had a plan. He had nothing. He didn't even have a 'pl'. He stopped walking and looked around. He wasn't being followed – well, he didn't _think _so anyway, but as last night had shown, that proved nothing – and he had walked so aimlessly he was starting to get lost. He had a vague idea of where he was, but what he didn't have was an idea of what to do now.

He could go back to the hotel and explain what had happened. He _should _go back to the hotel and explain what had happened, he knew that. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to be the one to break this news. _Oh, by the way, I lost Tintin too, and we found Veltje and she looked like something out of a horror movie. _He grinned manically at the memory. A lone woman getting in to her car stared at him worriedly. He watched as she locked the door and quickly drove away. _I want to do that, _he thought as he watched the car disappear around the corner. _I want to get into a car, or maybe get on a bus or a train and go away. Far, far away from here. I can pretend that none of this had ever happened. Or maybe I can wake up and realise it was all a bad dream. That would be nice. _

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. This was too much for one person to take. He wished he was an adult. Adults usually knew what to do in his experience. It wasn't always _right, _but at least they did _something. _All he had to do was figure out What Would Tintin Do?

_What _would _Tintin do? _he wondered. He looked down at Snowy, who was staring up at him and still whining unhappily. "What would Tintin do?" he asked the dog.

Snowy barked at the sound of his master's name, and relieved himself on a nearby lamppost.

"I don't think he'd do that," Danny replied sadly. An idea struck him and he straightened up slowly as he let it sink in. "Müller!" he whispered excitedly. "Of course! Tintin would go to Müller!"

**x**

_God, I hope Danny went back to the hotel, _Tintin was thinking. _I hope he got the Captain and the police. And I hope he's quick about it. _He twisted his arms again, trying to loosen the ropes that lashed his wrists to the back of the hard, wooden chair he was tied to. His ankles were also tied tightly together and secured to the chair legs, while a thick wad of cotton had been pushed into his mouth, held there by silver duct tape. He groaned as a sharp pain shot through his left arm. He held himself stiffly until the pain dulled and disappeared, wary of causing any injury to the wrist that had so recently healed.

He was back in Van Sant's office, but the large Dutchman was gone. He was on his own for now, but he knew there would be guards outside the door. His only real hope now was the Captain. As long as Danny got back to the hotel safely, everything would be fine. The Captain would know what to do. And it was early enough in the morning for him to be sober enough to do it properly.

He tested the ropes at his wrists again, but there was still no give in them. Whoever had tied him up had done it properly. He growled and started on his ankles instead.

**x**

Danny found _Valkyrie _almost deserted. He'd tried the front door, rattling it angrily, but it had stayed shut and inside someone had shouted something in another language. Probably Dutch, and probably something along the lines of: "Go away, we're closed." So he'd gone around to the side alleyway, pleased to see that Müller's car was still there, and tentatively tried the side door.

It was open. He slipped inside and made his way to the nightclub. Two cleaning women looked up at him owlishly. At one of the booths, a man in a cheap suit was reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. He got up as soon as he saw Danny and said something sharply in Dutch.

"Do you speak English?" Danny asked hesitantly.

"Little," the man conceded. He looked down at Snowy and pointed. "No dogs. Go away."

"I need to speak to Dr Müller, please," Danny said, falling back on his natural politeness.

"He busy. We closed. Go away now."

"Can you tell him it's about Georgie?"

The man raised an eyebrow and looked at Danny speculatively. "This girl, yes? Ok, I tell. You sit." He pointed at a bar stool and Danny obediently sat. "What is name?" the man added as he made to walk past.

"Haddock. Danny Haddock." It wasn't as effective as James Bond, but it would do. He watched as the man grinned and disappeared into the back passage. Left alone, the two woman continued to stare at him and Snowy until Danny started to turn red under their gaze. Then one woman said something to her companion and they both laughed loudly and went back to work. Ears burning, Danny barely heard Müller entering the bar.

"Jimmy?" Müller asked abruptly.

"Danny," Danny replied. "I'm Georgie's brother."

"Right, of course. Come with me." Müller led him out of the club and up the stairs to the office. He pointed at the couch and Danny sat down, feeling like a small child on an overlarge chair. "What about Georgie, Timmy?" Müller asked. "Is she found yet? Ivan told me that he sent Tintin to Van Sant."

"Danny," Danny corrected him, "and no, we didn't find her."

"We?" Müller questioned. He looked Danny up and down. "Tintin brought you with him?" he asked, puzzled. "No offence, Billy, but you wouldn't exactly be my choice for back-up."

"Danny. And no offence taken: I wasn't good back-up." He winced and plunged straight into the story, explaining to Müller what had happened. To his credit, Müller waited until the end before starting to swear loudly.

"For fuck's sake, Timmy, why haven't you gone to the police?" he raged. "Van Sant has been caught, bang to rights! He has the dead body of a woman the police are looking for _on his premises_, and he has kidnapped Tintin! You should have gone straight to the police! What time is it now? For God's sake, you've given him two hours to get rid of the evidence and Tintin!" He ran his hands over his head and thought furiously. "Is it too late to go there now?" he mused. "How many guns can I raise in a short time?"

**x**

Tintin saw the blow coming, but couldn't stop it. He closed his eyes as Van Sant's thick hand slapped soundly against his face. His head rocked to the side and for a moment he saw stars and heard only ringing in his ears. He was brought back to the here and now when Van Sant dug his sausage fingers into the soft flesh beneath his chin and tilted Tintin's head up. He stared at the man with baleful eyes.

"Pretty boy," Van Sant said, amused. He had switched to his broken English; the jolly fat man to the end. "I'm of two minds what to do with you. On the one hand, it would be easier now to kill you, I think. It would save me some problems later, hmm?" He ran his hand along Tintin's cheek, and the boy jerked his head away from the touch. Van Sant grinned again and grabbed Tintin's chin and forced his head back. "On the other hand, I am a business man, no? And I think many people would pay for you." He tilted Tintin's face upwards, ignoring the malevolent eyes that glared at him. He wanted to see fear in that face. "You're young, fresh… unbroken. I would enjoy watching you break, I think." He shifted his hand slightly, and ran his thumb along the tape that covered Tintin's mouth. Again, Tintin jerked his head away and received a half-hearted slap to the face before Van Sant wrapped one meaty hand around his throat and forced him to stay still.

The fat man bent down closer, his breath hot against Tintin's face. Tintin's gut clenched, but he forced himself to stay as still as possible, trying not to show any fear. "You're insolent," Van Sant said, switching back to Dutch. The friendly glint in his eye was gone, along with any trace of good humour. "You stick your nose in where it's not wanted and you _push. _Tell me, did you find Veltje on your little adventure around my place?" He smiled coldly when Tintin reluctantly nodded. "Good. So you saw what happened to her. That's going to happen to you, little boy. I'm going to rip your teeth out and watch when they fuck your face. When they flip you over and ruin your flesh, I will enjoy it. Your screams will be like music to me. Your tears will flavour my drinks and in the end you will beg me to kill you. But I won't. When my men are finished and you are broken, I will sell you. How many men would buy you, do you think?" Van Sant pulled back so he could watch Tintin's face carefully. The look of anger was gone, and the Dutchman could see the cogs starting to turn in Tintin's brain. "Which men would buy you? You have so many enemies, don't you? How many would pay to see you humiliated like that? How many would pay to take part in such a humiliation? You should know: rape is about power. How many people would pay to have you in their power?" His smile widened. "So you see, it _would_ be easier to kill you now, but why would I kill the goose that laid the golden egg? So much money to be made!" He patted Tintin on the cheek lightly. "Don't worry, my boy: your mind will break before your body does. Just hold on to that knowledge and you'll be fine." He laughed heartily. "What am I saying; _fine? _You'll never be fine. But at least you'll know what happened to that girl Georgie. And you'll know what that fool Müller will learn: don't ever fucking cross me."

He pulled away completely, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Take him," he said, looking behind Tintin. Two men were waiting at the door to the office. "I'll be along later."


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty One**

* * *

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up!" _Captain Haddock wrenched the door to the hotel suite open. "Stop bloody knocking!"

"Hung-over?" Müller asked as he breezed into the room. He stopped short when he saw the open roof and the state of the carpet. It had rained briefly during the night; a light summer shower that had lasted for all of five minutes but was the final nail in the coffin of the expensive carpeting. It looked more like a swamp now.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" the Captain demanded as he hastily knotted his dressing gown closed. He did a double-take when Danny and Snowy slunk in to the room. "What are you doing?" he asked, surprised. "I thought you were in bed?"

"Um," said Danny.

"Blistering barnacles, Snowy, get down! Where's Tintin?"

"Um."

"There's been a problem," Müller said.

The Captain looked at him suspiciously. "I don't like it when people say that. That's just another way to say we're up a certain creek without any paddles. Where's Tintin?"

"He very foolishly went to see a major player in the city's underworld, and got himself taken."

"Taken?" The Captain's eyes widened as he froze. It was a familiar, hated feeling that made his gut clench horribly and the bowels move swifter. He went quickly to Müller and grabbed the man by the lapel. "What are you talking about."

"Watch the suit," Müller snapped as he slapped the Captain's hand away. "I'll have you know it's very expensive."

"To the devil with your bloody suit!" the Captain yelled. "By thunder, one of you idiots better tell me what the hell is going on! Where the hell is Tintin!"

"I just told you: he's been taken by one of the city's criminals," Müller repeated patiently. "Do try to keep up, there's a good man."

"What do you mean; _taken!"_

"Calm down, will you? You're becoming hysterical."

"Calm down? I will not calm down! Stop talking in riddles and tell me what's going on! Danny, why aren't you in the other bedroom? What the bloody hell happened!"

Danny took a deep breath and explained what had happened. He closed his eyes and rattled off the whole story without pausing to breathe. –"… and that's when they grabbed him and I didn't know what to do so Snowy and I went to get Müller but he insisted we come here. And that's what happened." He opened his eyes cautiously and looked at the Captain.

The Captain had gone completely still. During the recitation, his face had changed from white to red and back to white. It was hovering somewhere between the two now. He took a deep breath and spoke in forced-calm tones. "Well. That's a doozy of a problem. So a man who procures prostitutes has taken Tintin. Hmm." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

"You're taking this very well," Müller said, unable to hide his amusement. He'd always heard that the old blow-hard had a ferocious temper.

"_You pair of flaming idiots!" _The Captain rounded on Danny, his arms flailing madly. _"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing? How the hell was this supposed to help? And you!" _He turned on Müller. _"What are you doing here? Call the bloody police! I swear I'm going to tear this city apart!" _

Müller and Danny backed away. Danny was alarmed while Müller watched the scene with a professional's eye. When the Captain flipped over the coffee table and almost sent the couch off the balcony, he finally stepped in to calm him down.

"All is not lost," he said patiently. "There are people we can go to. Granted, Van Sant won't be stupid enough to keep Tintin in the city, but someone must know where his main houses are. All we have to do is find them and we'll find Tintin. It's that simple."

"Simple!" The Captain rounded on him. _"Simple!_ Are you out of your mind? None of this is simple! And what do you mean, his 'main houses'?"

"His merchandise is never stored in the city. It's just brought here when he wants to sell it."

"Merchandise? _It?" _The Captain stepped up to Müller, his face right in the German's face. "They are _people, _you sick freak! _Children! _What the hell is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with the world!"

Müller raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "You've never used a prostitute?"

The Captain narrowed his eyes. "That's different, and you know it."

"No, it's almost the same. Just the age has changed. This isn't a new thing, Captain, it's been happening for centuries. And no woman _wants _to be a prostitute. They are forced into it by their families, by society, by their own pathetic needs and wants. Men like you who are paying for sex allow men like me to continue what we're doing. I supply _your_ demand. All I'm doing is simply providing a service for men like _you." _

"How dare you…!"

Müller stepped away from the Captain's lunge. "Pull yourself together, man," he said as he took his leave of the room. "And for the love of God, please put some clothes on. Billy and I shall wait for you downstairs in the restaurant. Come, Billy."

"Danny," Danny said automatically.

"Whatever."

**x**

It was the little touches, Müller thought as he cast his eye over the menu. A blend of cuisine from around the world mixed with local dishes and delicacies. It gave a sense of grand adventure without being too different from what one was used to. It was a light way to accustom the tourist palate with foreign food. Effective, he believed, and worthwhile. It was why he stocked so many beers and spirits from around the world. It was good to try local things, of course – there would be no point in travelling if everything was the same as everywhere else – but in the end, they all wanted a little taste of home, if only so they could exclaim about how it was the same as everywhere else.

"The police are here!" Danny squeaked.

Forgetting himself, Müller looked up and observed the boy in polite confusion. "And?" he asked.

"Won't that make this harder?" Danny asked.

"I have no idea, you'd have to ask your friend Tintin about that." Müller put the menu back on the table and took a sip of his coffee. "I'm rarely on this end of police investigations, Timmy. This is a new experience for me. As I understand it, the police will probably storm into _Kabouter _and find… Nothing. Because Van Sant would have removed from the place by now."

"And Tintin?"

"Gone as well, I would imagine."

"You don't sound very concerned."

"I'm not: Tintin is a resourceful young man. And a small part of me would enjoy hearing he was tortured to death, if I'm brutally honest."

"Please, don't be brutally honest," Danny replied at once.

"Hiding from reality simply makes it harder to stand when it hits you in the face. As it inevitably does. Would it make you feel better if I said that Tintin was probably at a party, having balloon animals made for his entertainment?"

"Um. Yes, actually."

"Well, he isn't. He's probably in a dark room being systematically broken down. Wise up, Timmy: this is the real world."

"Danny."

"Who?"

"Me! _I'm _Danny!"

"Oh. Right. Of course." Müller shrugged, unconcerned. He watched the police impassively. They were outside the restaurant, at the hotel's reception desk in the lobby. Captain Haddock had joined them and, grim faced, appeared to be bringing them up to speed with the happenings of the morning. "It's all rather interesting," he opined. "Look at Haddock: although he was the one who probably called the police you can see that he's actually reluctant to deal with them. See his face?"

Danny watched as one of the policemen said something, and the Captain dismissed it scornfully.

"It's almost," Müller continued, "as though he only called them out of a sake of propriety. You can clearly see he has no intention of doing what they say. Which leads me to ask: why call them in the first place? He either doesn't trust his first instinct, or is so brainwashed by Tintin's ideals that he believes the police must be the first port of call in any emergency."

"They are, though, aren't they?" Danny asked, confused.

"Are they?" Müller looked surprised. "I would have thought that if you could handle the trouble yourself, as the Captain must surely be able to do, it would be defunct to call the police. My, my," he added as the Captain, followed by the small police squad, entered the restaurant, "this is going to be a very interesting experience. My gut instinct tells me to leave Ivan behind, but it would be rather amusing to include him in this. As it is, I cannot be here to talk to them, so you'll have to excuse me." He got up and slipped away, walking quickly towards the men's room.

"Where's he going?" the Captain asked as he got closer.

"Um," said Danny. "I don't know. Toilet?"

"Hopefully he won't be long. Now, Danny, these men want you to go over your story again, from start to finish. Don't leave anything out."

**x**

In the bathroom, Müller took out his phone and quickly dialed Ivan's number. It took a short while, but eventually the Russian answered the phone.

"Hullo?" he asked in a sleepy voice.

"I need you to meet me outside _Kabouter," _Müller said at once. "It's all gone tits up and Tintin's gone missing. We need to be quick and quiet if we're to find out anything, do you understand?"

"I got you, boss," Ivan said, his voice brightening. "Can I bring anything?"

Müller hesitated before answering. "Not all of your toys, Ivan. Just bring one and we'll see how we get on. And I'll need to open a few doors. Bring something appropriate for that, too."

"You won't regret it!" Ivan said happily before hanging up. Müller shook his head. Ivan's toys were synonymous with 'regret' – who the hell brings a grenade to a knife fight? – but this time there really was no alternative. He exited the men's room and turned left instead of right. Still walking swiftly, he left the restaurant through the second door into the street, and got straight into his car. To hell with the police: it was too late for them and he knew what he was doing.

**x**

Ivan arrived shortly after Müller, pulling up in a taxi. He paid the driver and jogged across the street to where Müller was waiting for him, a grin plastered to his face. He had also taken the precaution of dressing in black, with a black leather jacket, black t-shirt and black jeans. He carried a heavy sports bag, also black. In attempting to blend in with the crowd, he'd managed to make himself a caricature of a criminal, thus ensuring that he stuck out of the crowd like a sore thumb. Müller shook his head in amusement.

"What did you bring?" he asked as soon as Ivan drew up level with him.

"My favourite," Ivan replied. He opened his jacket and pulled out a crowbar.

Müller blinked. He'd been expecting something like a rocket launcher.

"Is good for hitting, stabbing, and prying things open, eh?" Ivan continued with a cheeky wink. He jabbed the pointed end of the crowbar at the air in front of them, and Müller relaxed.

_Of course, _he thought to himself, _anything is a weapon in the wrong hands, and I've seen Ivan try and choke someone to death with chewing gum. And almost succeed… _"Good for you, my friend." He patted Ivan on the shoulder and led him around the back of the building, to where the metal door to the back part of the nightclub stood waiting. A thick padlock glinted in the sunlight. "But will it open that?"

Ivan sniffed and examined the lock before putting the crowbar away. Instead, he removed a silenced gun from an inner holster. Müller instantly covered his ears as Ivan shot the lock off. "Better, no?" he asked innocently.

"Much better," Müller said sarcastically. He nodded to the door. "Go in and make sure the place is clear."

Ivan winked again and disappeared, his gun held protectively up. Müller paced the alley restlessly, alternatively humming and whistling a few bars of an old opera. For some reason, he felt strangely and patriotically _German _when doing things like this. Ivan reappeared after about five minutes. He shrugged at Müller.

"All clear," he said.

Müller brushed past him and entered the building. "You sound confused."

"There's nothing here that I can see. No girls, no workers, none of Van Sant's men… It's like he cleared out completely."

"Not completely: never completely. His safe is hidden and the information we need is inside it." Müller ignored the stairs up and went straight to the storage cellar at the end of the corridor. He paused only to examine the window – you could still see where Tintin had forced it open – before moving to the back of the room to where a load of wooden boxes were stored. Taking off his jacket, he and Ivan started to move the boxes out of the way, until the wall behind them was clear.

It was hard to see where the paneling was fake. You had to know it was there before you could see the faint, thin crack. He pushed lightly against one part of it. It didn't move so he kept trying, his hand moving quickly as he tried to find the pressure point he knew existed. Eventually he found it and a small, square section of the wall swung forward to reveal the steel front of a small wall safe. This, Müller knew, was the Promised Land. Van Sant had been in the business for a very long time, and he had dirt on everyone. This safe had been a rumour, and as far as he knew only Ivan and himself had actually found it, and that had been completely accidental.

He stepped out of the way and let Ivan get to work.

Ivan put the sports bag down and pulled out something that looked like an electric screwdriver. He fiddled with the head for a second before putting it against the lock of the safe. He pressed a button on the drill and the room was filled with an ear-splitting screeching that would send every dog in the neighbourhood into a frenzy of barking. Müller gritted his teeth. When Ivan was finished, he reached out and slapped the back of his head.

"Quietly," he hissed. "I needed this done _quietly. _The police will be here soon."

Ivan looked hurt as the safe door swung open. "That's all the thanks I get?"

"I'll buy you a new car." Müller's heart leaped as he saw the stacks of papers and folders inside the safe. He quickly grabbed them all and started back. "Now let's get the hell out of here before the police arrive."

**x**

They were driving back to the hotel when the police passed them. Several cars screamed by, going the opposite direction, towards the Wallon and _Kabouter_. Müller smiled smugly to himself and turned the radio up. He did so love Wagner, especially when he was feeling rather triumphant himself.


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty Two**

* * *

"Well?" Van Sant leaned back and observed Doctor Genezersen. The good doctor looked uncomfortable, slouched in the leather armchair, one finger picking at his cracked bottom lip. He had been told nothing; just that there was a new addition to the stable and his advice on how to proceed was needed. As ever, he had shown up and examined the merchandise and hadn't asked any questions.

But he knew.

How could he not know? One would have to be living in a cave on Mars if one didn't recognise that face.

"The boy is wilful," Dr Genezersen said slowly. "It won't be easy."

_Say it, _Van Sant thought. _Go on!_

"You would have to use forceful conditioning. You would need to… break him completely… and it would take a lot of time. Much longer than usual," the doctor continued. His eyes spoke volumes. He was staring at Van Sant, working up his courage to mention the elephant in the room.

"Go on," Van Sant replied blandly. It was more fun to watch Genezersen dance around it, to watch his unease.

Dr Genezersen shifted in his chair and blew out a loud, noisy sigh. "I mean, we're talking humiliation, conditioning shame and guilt… Pavlovian responses… You… You _do _know who it…?"

The question hung in the air. Van Sant rearranged his face into one of supreme innocence. "Who?" he asked.

Dr Genezersen blinked. A smile automatically came onto his face, as though he suspected he was being played with. "You realise that's Tintin, right?"

"Tintin?"

"The famous reporter?" Dr Genezersen's smile widened. It was, ironically, a learned response the doctor had picked up from somewhere: he smiled when he was uncomfortable. "My friend, the only thing you can really do with him is let him go and hope he can't lead the police back to you!"

"Pretend it isn't Tintin," Van Sant said smoothly. He watched Genezersen's smile fade as he realised what was about to happen, whether he agreed with it or not.

"You can't," the doctor said, bewildered. "You could ransom him if you want a few million, but he _will _find you and bring you to justice."

"I said; 'pretend it isn't Tintin'."

Genezersen's eyes widened, but he shook his head and played along. "Well, taking everything into account, traditional isolation won't help. He is already equipped to undergo long periods of isolation and confinement. From what I've read of him, I would imagine that he has no fear of dark places."

"Forget what you've read about him."

"I can't!" Genezersen cried. "How can I forget? I know who he is! I am telling you now, normal techniques will not work on him. Putting him into the dark for six weeks with no human contact _will not work. _He isn't like ordinary kids: doing that to him will only make him angry! Isolating him from people, having his only human contact as a slit in a door that opens once a day with food and water, _will not work! _He probably thinks better when he's left alone."

"Good," said Van Sant, soothingly. "Tell me more. How do I break his concentration? How do I stop him from thinking?"

"Loud noises. Bright lights. Sleep deprivation. Painful stimulus. I don't know!"

"You're doing fine. I'm already learning."

"Please, my old friend!" Dr Genezersen leaned forward over the table and looked beseechingly at him. "You don't want to do this. Cut your losses now and let him go. Hell, kill him for all I care, but _don't do this! _This will ruin you."

"I'll take that chance," Van Sant replied, shrugging unconcernedly.

Dr Genezersen held his hands up. "I want no part of this," he said firmly.

"You're already a part of it."

"No. No more. You're not taking me down with you."

"My old friend," Van Sant said mockingly, "where else will you get your pick-me-ups from? And if you don't have your drugs, how will you live? Do you think your friends at the hospital will be so understanding when they find out your little double-life?"

"To hell with that!" Dr Genezersen spat. "Do you understand that if you try this, you will destroy everything you've built? No good can come of it. Cut your losses now."

"Never. There is money to be made, and only the brave will succeed."

Dr Genezersen shook his head and stood up. "Then I want no more to do with it. I'm warning you."

"Then go," Van Sant said easily. "You are an addict, Doctor. You _will _be back. You need me more than I need you." He watched the good doctor gather up his things and leave, muttering to himself all the while. It was amusing. He would be back: he was addicted to several different drugs and the only reason he worked for Van Sant in the first place was because the hospital was on to him and he couldn't steal drugs from there anymore. Doctor Genezersen, along with his infamous prescription pad, used to be quite the entrepreneur before his courage failed him.

_Courage, _Van Sant thought idly to himself as the door banged closed behind Doctor Genezersen, _is the key. _He turned back to the televisions that broadcast images from the building's extensive network of CCTV cameras, and observed the subject closely. Now it was time to teach the brat the meaning of the word.

**x**

He was in complete darkness. He knew there was something over his head – a bag, most likely, and it was made of soft material. He was still gagged but he wasn't blindfolded and he still couldn't see any hint of light. He figured he was probably in a pitch-black room.

That was good. To the untrained eye, it was a bad thing, but to him it was good. It meant that Van Sant was going to try and condition him and there were tricks – not a lot, certainly, but all he needed was a few – to make sure it wouldn't be successful.

His arms were stretched above his head, and he was suspended from the ceiling. His ankles were attached to the floor, and in order to relieve pressure on his shoulders he had to remain on tip-toe. That was much worse: physical discomfort would lead to physical pain, and if he was left like this for a long period of time – a week or more – he would be so pathetically grateful when he was finally let down it could completely weaken his resolve. The only way to get through this was to remain calm and think logically. In the dark, on his own, he could do that.

_Oh yes, _Tintin thought to himself, _I can do that. _

**x**

Van Sant kept his eyes trained on the ceiling. He was leaning back, contemplating everything Doctor Genezersen had said. With a sudden smile that was almost sweet, he leaned forward and pressed a button on the desk, and spoke into the microphone that connected him to his minions in the basement of the huge warehouse. "Let there be light," he declared serenely. He sat back and watched as the thermal imaging camera in cell number six was turned off, and the lights were turned on.

**x**

_Light, _Tintin thought. He kept completely still as, through the thick-knitted fibres of the hood that covered his face, light began to filter through to his eyes. It wasn't bright though, but it indicated that they were making the environment comfortable for someone. It certainly wasn't for his benefit, so it could only mean that he wasn't going to be alone for much longer.

This probably wasn't going to be pleasant, but it was necessary. It would give him more clues as to what they meant to do to him; which track they would take. He doubted they would rape him yet: for now that would be a threat to dangle over his head; to keep him in line. But even without that it still wouldn't be a very pleasant experience.

Behind him, the door was unlocked. It creaked when it opened, and was accompanied by the sound of footsteps: at least two men, Tintin thought, but it was hard to hear properly through the hood he wore. He braced himself, prepared to wait. That was the usual tactic: complete silence, just the knowledge that you weren't alone to drive you into a higher state of anxiety. The awful _anticipation, _the _waiting, _the –

A moment to recognise the feel of someone's hand on the hood before it was pulled from his head. His eyes were wide open, and he regretted that instantly. He couldn't see a blasted thing; he was blinded! His eyelids snapped shut against the hateful light and his body sagged. He hung there, in a great deal of pain and feeling rather ashamed at exposing his own weakness so quickly, when his eardrums almost exploded. From all around him came the sound of screams – people screaming in fear and great agony. It surrounded him, and made him think that a chorus of people were screaming directly in his ears. His body jerked up again and, against his will, his eyes opened wide in fear and shock. As soon as he was on his tip-toes again the screaming stopped, but he didn't notice that: he was too busy whimpering and collapsing in frightened, sudden pain again. As soon as he had dropped, the screaming started again.

**x**

In the office upstairs, Van Sant watched the monitor and laughed heartily. He was actually enjoying this. It was almost comical to watch. Tintin jerked up and down like a puppet on a string. It was almost ironic: the clever little boy had tried to use tricks and wiles to throw the brutish Van Sant off balance, but in the end it was the brutish tricks that always worked. They were always so much more _direct. _

**x**

_Ok, you have this figured out now. Think, Tintin, think! _

He was standing on his tip-toes with his eyes shut. The hated screaming was gone at last. It had taken him a while to figure out that it only happened when he wasn't standing up properly. That was clever. He wouldn't be able to sleep if they kept it up for a while, and if he was exhausted he'd be easier to manage.

_But now I know this. I can use this knowledge. I can… I can… er, I can… think of another way to use it later. _He carefully eyed the man he could see through slitted, light-sensitive eyes. One was standing before him. He wore leather gloves and a balaclava, and Tintin was sure there was a second, similarly attired man standing behind him. The skin on his back was crawling and the hair at the back of his neck was standing up. His flesh _crept. _

The man he could see got to work dispassionately. He seized Tintin's t-shirt and pulled it up, exposing the teenager's chest. He pulled it the whole way up, until it was over his head and coasting on his arms. Then, the man who was standing behind Tintin reached up and quickly un-cuffed his wrists. Together, the two men wrestled him out of his shirt and back into his cuffs, until he was bare-chested and suspended between them. He had fought, and he was huffing against the gag from his efforts, and he knew what was coming next.

A chance to escape when they freed his legs, hopefully.

The first man – the one he could see – quickly stripped Tintin's belt free from his jeans. Tintin stared at him, determined not to make this easy for him. Common sense had already told him that they wouldn't rape him yet. That would make no sense: it was a trump card, as it were, and Van Sant wouldn't over-play his hand just yet. _But still, _said a tiny part of his brain, _you don't know that for sure. This is all based on statistics, and the reason they're statistics and not statistiC, singular, is because that's not how it always works. _

_Shut up, _he told that part of his brain. _You're not helping. _

His jeans and the top of his boxers were shucked down over his hips. They slipped freely to the floor.

_Please don't rape me! Please don't rape me! Please don't rape me! Please don't rape me! DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU STARTED, BRAIN! I'M PANICING! Please don't rape me! Please don't rape me! _

He almost cried in relief when he felt the cuff on his right ankle being released. They were simply stripping him. That was to be expected: nakedness increased shame. It was simply another way to reduce him from the status of a civilised person to a mindless object. He waited for the hands that were wrapped around his ankles to relax, so he could kick out… but they didn't. There were _two _men, and one held him tightly while the other removed his jeans and socks before cuffing him back into position.

_Drat! _The two men retreated. Tintin heard the door creak shut before the locks clicked back into place. There were at least two locks, he thought: one sounded like a key hole and the other like a bolt. He filed the information away to be used later.

_Alright, _he thought, taking a deep breath, _let's examine everything. You aren't in immediate danger. _

_Maybe._

_Shut up. Ok, maybe. We _may _not _be _in immediate danger, but that doesn't mean it's not forthcoming. Is that better?_

_Oh, much better, but it isn't helping anyone: you're simply procrastinating. _

_Shut up! Shut up and let's get down to business. Look around. What do you see? _

He turned his head as much as he was able, and surveyed his surroundings as calmly as he could. The room was barely more than a cupboard. Now he was barefoot he could feel that he was standing on a small grill set into the floor. Horribly enough, that was probably for his waste.

_Oh, no, _he thought, _I'm probably going to have to use that, eventually. Ugh. No, I won't let it come to that. Ok, so I'm in a room the size of a small cloakroom. I could easily touch the walls if my hands were free. That's good. And the door locks… Something about the wood being weakened…_

**x**

In his office Van Sant yawned widely. He had been up all night and for almost all of the preceding 24 hours, and he was tired now. He wanted to sleep. He watched the figure on the television screen impassively. He leaned forward and looked at the small row of plastic buttons on the thin console that connected his office with the cells. His finger hovered over a button and he appeared to reconsider for a moment – but only for a brief moment. He smiled and pressed the button. He might as well acquaint Tintin with the soundtrack of his life for the foreseeable future.

He stood up and placed his hat on his head before ambling slowly to the door. He didn't bother to turn back: he knew this would do its job well.

**x**

… _but something to do with the locks. Where the locks are on the do – NOISE! OH GOD WHAT IS THAT NOISE! IS THAT… Oh. My. God. That's Barney the Dinosaur! That's Barney the sodding Dinosaur! That is Barney the sodding Dinosaur IN MY EARS! How is it that loud? Oh, that huuuuurts! _

He cringed as the music blared from everywhere. He tottered on his tip-toes, blasted from all sides by the music. He held his breath and cleared his mind, and waited for the song to stop. One beautifully silent moment – he almost gasped in relief – before it started again.

_No! Nooo! NO NO NO! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!_

_It's not going to stop. Calm down. Think rationally. _

_NO, YOU THINK RATIONALLY! JUST MAKE IT SHUT IT'S STUPID FACE AND STOP!_

_Just accept it. This is another perfectly acceptable technique. Remember? We read about this in that book, _The Men Who Stare At Goats. _They use this song in Afghanistan to mess with the prisoners' heads. This song drives people crazy. You know that. Now calm down and think about it. _

_YES I KNOW BUT I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE! KNOWING DOESN'T HELP ANYTHING! I CAN'T HANG ON TO THE FACT THAT I'M PROBABLY GOING TO BE A COWERING, WEEPING, JIBBERING WRECK. IT'S NOT A COMFORTING THOUGHT. _

_Get it all out of your system if you must: I'll just wait for you, shall I?_

_No, I'm done now. _

_Good. So we're in a small, intensely bright room listening to annoying, obnoxious music over and over. Well, we've been in worse situations, Tintin. _

_We certainly have. We've been in honest to goodness life-or-death situations. I'm sure we can survive this. All we need to remember is that if we fall asleep we'll be woken straight back up, and we can't free ourselves. So basically all we can do is stand here and endure it until someone comes to help us. We can do that. _

_What if they don't come?_

_Stop it. _

_But we need to think rationally –_

_STOP IT. They'll come. Someone will come. I can't go missing and nobody comes: that's not how it works. Common sense says that the Captain will find a way. He always does. _

_Does he? What if he's drunk? We might be waiting a while. It might be just as well to have our own way out of here. _

_I'm not listening to you any more. There is no way out of here. All we can do is endure and wait. The Captain will come and this is not a life-or-death situation. _

_But aren't some things worse than death? Come on: what about those locks? _

_LA LA LA LA LA I'MNOTLISTENING LA LA LA LA LA _

**x**

When Van Sant awoke from his nap four hours later, significantly refreshed and optimistic about the day, he was pleased to hear that the prisoner had started to scream about a half an hour previous, and no amount of violence upon his person could convince him to stop. Van Sant smiled and went to watch the show.


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty Three**

* * *

The door to the suite opened and the Captain and Frankie Haddock trooped in. Danny, perched on one of the comfortable chairs, eyed them silently. On the couch, Müller was relaxing as he read through a thick paper folder. More paper folders decorated the coffee table. On the opposite side, a laptop faced Danny. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed. The Captain waited until the bathroom door opened and the hulking blond Russian appeared, a huge grin on his face.

"Please to meet!" Ivan said happily.

"What are you doing here?" the Captain asked, directing his question to Müller.

"Ah, you're back." Müller continued to ignore him, but deigned to answer his question. "I'm just doing a little research. I'm sure Billy can explain. After all, it was his idea."

"Um," said Danny, as all adult attention turned to him. Even Snowy sat up and watched him closely. "Er, it was a bit of an accident. You see, there's a series of words in these files that looked out of place, and I Googled them because I didn't know what else to do, and it turns out that they're the names of streets in a few towns outside Amsterdam. We're just making a list of all the towns and streets Mr Van Sant has made a note of, and I'm using Google Street-View to find out what's there."

"And what's there?" Frankie asked quietly as he sat down near his son. He leaned over to look at the laptop, and Danny obligingly moved it so his father could see the screen better.

"Mostly warehouses, we think, and what looks like an old farmhouse or something." Danny clicked on one of the tabs and brought up what looked to be an old, worn building.

"That's a barn," the Captain said as he hung over the back of the armchair. "Why warehouses and barns though?"

"It, er, it's where we think he keeps his, er, _merchandise," _Danny said, wincing. "Please don't kill me, Captain, but it's easier to think of it, er, as merchandise. If you see what I mean."

The Captain stared at him coldly. "Yeah, I'd say it's really easy to imagine that they're not people. But that's when the problems start, lad, when you can think of people as less-than-alive." He eyed Müller resentfully.

"True," Danny agreed thoughtfully, "but they're also Georgie. And now Tintin. And I don't want to think of them like… what's actually happening. I think I'll go mad, if I do."

"Try not to think of them at all," Frankie offered. "Maybe that's best."

"Rubbish!" Müller tossed the folder he was examining aside and looked at the Captain and Frankie. "I've never heard such utter rubbish in my life! The boy has clearly found a coping mechanism that works. Don't strip it from him. You'll just end up stunting him, emotionally."

"So you think it's ok for him to think of people as objects?" the Captain demanded.

"Has he always had that view?" Müller stared quizzically at Frankie. "Has he always exhibited signs of sociopathic tendencies?"

"No, of course not," Frankie said, offended. "He's an extremely good kid."

"So what you're saying is: when faced with an extremely disturbing situation he is using what could be seen as an extremely disturbing method that, in any normal situation, is seen as an undesirable trait." Müller looked back and forth between the Captain. "That isn't a cause for alarm: that's a cause for congratulations, you pair of idiots. He's handling this better than either of you. You," – he pointed at Frankie – "seem to be moping around and doing very little. No doubt you're all caught up in your own self-pity, wondering if your selfish actions led to this – they did, incidentally: if you hadn't shipped your kids off so you could spend a few summer weeks fawning over your new girlfriend none of this would have happened – and feeling sorry for yourself. Poor you."

"How dare you!" Frankie spluttered.

Müller stood up and adjusted his suit. "I dare because I can," he replied calmly. "My dear sir, what you are suffering from is called A Midlife Crisis. It will pass. What your daughter is suffering from is called Dear God Someone Please Help Me; None Of This Is My Fault. Now kindly pull your head from out of your ass and make yourself useful. Come, Billy, we shall continue this downstairs, were we are less likely to be interrupted with extremely stupid questions."

"Ok." Danny gathered up the laptop and a few of the files while Ivan took the rest, and together they struggled out after Müller. The Captain and Frankie looked at each other.

"There's something not right there," the Captain said slowly. "He's bald and the next time he sees forty, it'll be on the front of a bus. How the hell did he manage to pull a nineteen year old woman?"

"Good God, Archie!" Frankie wailed. "That's my daughter you're talking about!"

"Yeah, and he's right about something else too; you're too busy feeling sorry for yourself," the Captain replied briskly. He moved to the door, and went to follow the others.

"Where are you going?" Frankie asked plaintively.

"I'm going after them," the Captain said, astonished. "Like it or not, Frankie, that man is the closest person to finding both Tintin and Georgie. Chances are, on that list he's making is the building where our kids are being kept. I may not like Müller, and I may not want to work with him, but I will tear the whole country apart to get Tintin back safe. If that means I have to swallow my pride and work with a git like him, then so be it. It'll be worth it if I get my son back alive and well, won't it?"

"This can't be happening," Frankie said faintly. His eyes glazed over slightly. The Captain knew that look – he remembered it from the first time Tintin had gone missing while in his care – and felt sorry for his older brother. Sometimes, it took a while for the full enormity of the situation to hit. "She's my daughter, Archie," he continued. He reached out and took a hold of the Captain's lapel, as though begging him for information. "How is this happening? She's only a child! She should be… she should be out with friends, or doing homework, or listening to music, or at the park…"

The Captain's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Is she kidnapped or stuck in the 1950s? Kids don't do that stuff anymore! Müller's right: you've got to take your head out of your bum and face up to it. She's gone, and nobody can help other than you. Think of Liam Neeson and take one for the team."

"I hated that film," Frankie said with a sigh. He went to follow the Captain out of the room.

"Tough luck, pal," the Captain muttered, "'cause you're in it now."

**x**

"So waitresses ask smart questions, but we ask stupid ones?" the Captain asked as soon as he sat down. Müller and Danny were in the restaurant with Ivan, and a waitress was just serving them coffee as the Captain and Frankie appeared. Müller opened his mouth to answer, but the waitress got there first.

"There are no stupid questions, just stupid people," she said smartly in perfect English. She winked at Müller before retreating to the kitchen.

"I like her," Müller said, impressed. "She's just earned a good tip."

"How on earth can such a contemptible man wrap women around his little finger?" the Captain asked, almost in awe.

"Because I'm charming," Müller replied quickly. "What did you learn when the police raided _Kabouter?"_

"You know about that?" The Captain shot a look at Frankie. "Then you probably already know we found nothing. There's a lot of blood in one of the rooms, soaked into a bed, but no body. They're going to do tests, but they think that was where Veltje was held. What did you think we'd find?"

"Nothing," Müller replied with a shrug, "because minutes before you screeched in, all guns blazing, Ivan and I had already stolen Van Sant's files." He gestured to the files, which were now neatly stacked on the table.

"Why did you take them!" the Captain cried. "They could have been helpful!"

"Did you find the safe?" Müller asked. He watched the Captain's baffled expression. "The one hidden in the cellar? Behind the false wall? No? Did anyone look for it? No? Then what we did was find evidence that nobody else could find, and put it to good use. We have the same resources the police have. More in fact, because we can pay the local riff-raff for information while they cannot. Gentlemen, if either one of you has a better idea, or any moral objections to this, speak now and leave."

Frankie looked uncomfortable, but the Captain looked blasé. Müller nodded, satisfied. "Good. Then let us get on with what we're doing. To catch you both up, we have gone through the files twice and we think we've caught everything. There's only five different locations mentioned, again and again, and we are working under the assumption that these are the five main places he keeps his stock."

"So what?" the Captain asked. "Do we pass the names on to the police and let them raid the places?"

Müller stared at him, alarmed. "Why would we do that? That would get me into trouble and I intend on coming out of this smelling of roses, gentlemen. No, it would be much easier for us to raise the guns ourselves and get in and out without any fuss. With any luck, when it's over it'll just look like another power-grab among the criminal gangs."

"But there's five places," Frankie said suddenly. "How are we going to know where Georgie or Tintin are being held? Or even if they're being held together?"

"We don't," Müller admitted, "but using our common sense and logic we should be able to deduce where they are. For example, there are two places in or near a town called Eindhoven, which in turn is less than two hours drive from Amsterdam. Logically speaking, it would make sense for Van Sant to move someone like Tintin – or even Georgie, once it became known who she was related to – from one facility to the other. Now," he leaned forward and doodled on the back of one of the folders, sketching out a rough circle. He made an X on the bottom-left section of the circle. "The first place is a warehouse in the Woensel-Zuid district. It is the closest place to Amsterdam, and because Van Sant didn't disappear from Amsterdam at all when Georgie went missing it makes sense that she was brought to somewhere close, like Eindhoven. It also makes sense that, once he found out who she was – and that Tintin would be getting involved – he would move her again. In which case, the barn, which is a little bit away from Eindhoven would be the most logical place. It's in the middle of nowhere, but still only an hour and a half by car from the first place in Woensel-Zuid."

"He wouldn't sell her or kill her?" the Captain asked suddenly. He caught sight of Danny's unhappy face and shrugged. "Sorry," he added, "but it sort of has to be asked."

"No, Van Sant is all about money," Müller said firmly. "He's survived in this city for decades – all of his life, really. He was born close by and moved here when he was a child. He's seen off everyone and fought his way to the top of the heap. He's a greedy man: he won't kill anyone that can make him money, and Georgie wouldn't have finished the… _training." _He pronounced the word distastefully. "He'd move her so he could sell her for her full price, rather than lose even a few euros. He's faced worse than us, gentlemen, and came out the other side smiling. He's practically untouchable."

"Then why are we going after him?" Frankie asked, alarmed. "Surely we'd stand no chance? Compared to the police, anyway."

"Because he's only _practically _untouchable," Müller said patiently. "Like I said; he's greedy. He's greedy in his business dealings too. He's ripped off every other criminal organization in the city. If we attack, they won't move to help him. Not unless it looks like he's winning and they can be sure their loyalty is firmly placed on the right side. They'll back him up then. But this is no gang war: we will go into this building once – tonight – and while everyone is busy trying to figure out who moved against Van Sant, we'll be free and laughing. Well," he corrected himself, "I'll be free and laughing. You'll all be free, of course, but probably less likely to laugh." He sat back and waited for their questions.

"How many people have we got?" the Captain asked.

Müller thought for a moment. "You and me, and Ivan, and your man here… I could probably bring in two more I trust completely – this can't get back to anyone: the more it looks like a power-grab the better and the smaller our group is the better chance we have of it staying secret…"

"And how many will we be facing?"

"Quite a lot, considering how few men we'll have. No more than twenty or so though."

"You're not seriously considering this, are you?" Frankie asked faintly. "You want to go up against a private army?"

The Captain drummed his fingers against the table. "Not with only six men and no official support," he mused. "What if I can get two Interpol detectives?"

Müller considered it. "They would have to be… _discrete_. Remember: I don't intend on going to jail again."

"They are. Or rather, I think I can convince them to be."

Müller looked impressed. "It pays to have your contacts, I think."

The Captain shrugged and looked bashful. "What can I say? People like doing favours for me."

"Ha! You're a lucky man, Captain Haddock. Let's hope your luck holds out, yes?"


	24. Chapter 24

**Twenty Four**

* * *

_Seriously? It's been all of nine hours and you're freaking out. Please, get a grip on yourself. You're embarrassing us. _

He didn't know what they were hitting him with, but a small part of his brain had deduced that it was –

_Clearly some kind of plastic. Probably a really thin piece of tubing or piping. It's not that bad, you know: you've had worse. _

– probably a tactic to try and keep him from screaming, but that wasn't working. Every time he heard the low swish of the object as it moved through the air, he simply took a deep breath, absorbed the blow, compartmentalised the pain and kept screaming. But the worst part was –

_That you're embarrassing yourself? That you're a nervous gibbering wreck? That you've folded faster than most people when placed under pressure?_

– the realisation that he couldn't take it any more. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want these men around him. He was almost positive that there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room –

_It's above the door, you idiot! Think about it: the only object in the room that looks out of place is ME! ME! I'M OUT OF PLACE! the fire alarm with the single, red flashing light. _

– which meant that Van Sant was probably watching all this too. He was probably directing it, telling the men what to do, how to destroy his mind quickly –

_And it's working, you know? You do realise that you'll probably end up placidly lying in a bed, taking it up the chuff-hole for the rest of your increasingly short life? Unless, of course, you get a grip on yourself. We've been at this for hours and they haven't left you alone, turned off the music and the screaming, or switched the light back off. Because this is working. Now man up and quit acting like a whiney little kid! _

Something was going to break, sooner or later. He knew it. He knew that, eventually, they'll get bored and go away –

_You idiot! They're not going to do that! This is working! Yes, something is going to break: you are going to break! You have almost broken! _

_Almost, but not quite. _

The plan hit him and he almost stopped. It was so simple. It was pure brilliance. For once in his life, he was almost glad that a small part of his brain worked solely on logic and was able to calmly collect information and data, store it away safely, and think about it while the rest of him was in mortal danger.

_Daaaaaaaamn, _he thought to himself. _That might actually work. Clever little you. _

**x**

It was an interesting dynamic, Müller thought. As soon as he'd gotten confirmation that his Interpol detectives would be there, the Captain had decided against bringing in any more of Müller's men. They would be trying to take the building with six men: the Captain, Frankie, Müller, Ivan, and the two Interpol agents Tweedledum and Tweedledee, or whatever their names were.

It was insanity, pure and simple. They'd be dead in a few hours. Müller only hoped he died quickly: a stray bullet was far more preferable to any revenge Van Sant could dream up.

But as insane as it was he wasn't scared. He wasn't anything really; just a little excited and amused. And the excitement was a _good _kind of excitement. That was the most confusing thing of all. It wasn't the gut-wrenching, adrenaline-fuelled exhilaration of staring death in the face. That was different. That ran on pure energy and a sort of twisted love of fear. This was the sort of excitement he felt before sex, or bungee jumping.

He _wanted_ to do this. He _wanted _to walk into the lair of unspeakable evil. He _wanted _to kick ass first and take names later.

He _wanted _to be the hero.

It was good. It was fitting. It was like something out of Wagner. The hero of the piece was facing certain death and insurmountable odds to retrieve his lover. He would die, but she would be free, and the Valkyries would arrive and sweep him off to Valhalla.

"Let's go through the plan," he said.

"Again?" the Captain asked. "Why?"

"I want this to go smoothly."

"We go in, we… er, neutralise as many bad guys as possible, we free people, we leave. It's pretty simple to me," the Captain answered as he pulled on a Kevlar vest. Müller thought that was overkill, but the Interpol agents had brought six and it seemed impolite to refuse.

"Ivan and I go around the back," Thomson said. "You wait for our signal, flanking either side of the door."

"On your signal, we break the door down," Thompson continued. "We sweep the building from front to back, securing any hostiles."

"When all hostiles have been secured, we locate any hostages and take them out of the building."

"Our back-up is located within a mile; they will be called in after the building has been cleared in order to secure the scene and administer any medical treatment needed."

"And if it goes arses up?" Müller asked, amazed at their verbal dexterity. He had been assured that they weren't twins – weren't even related, apparently – but he still had a hard time believing it. They were so damn _similar. _

"Back-up called immediately and the undertaker is standing by," the Captain answered with a grin.

"This is insane," Müller said. He shook his head and tried to hide his grin. "Gentlemen, I believe we are ready to go."

"After you, ship-mate," the Captain said, holding the door open.

**x**

_Don't move! Don't move! Don't move! Don't move! _

After years of observing Snowy, Tintin had decided that the most effective way of getting people to give up and go away, was to Go Limp. So he had Gone Limp. And he was very, very Limp. He simply hung there, his head tucked down to his chin and his face screwed up. His eyes were tightly closed, and inside his head he repeated over and over again:

_Don't move! Don't move! Don't move! Don't move! _

They shouted at him. They hit him, they tried pinching and kicking him and one had spat in his face, but he still just hung there, Limp. His whole body spoke loudly to anyone that was watching, and it was saying: _I don't care. I don't care any more. Do whatever the hell you want: I don't care. _So he hung there, grimly, and let them do whatever the hell they wanted.

Silence.

Or had he gone deaf? It was a close call, but in the humming silence that had suddenly descended he could hear other noises; the soft noises of people moving around him. He kept his head down and his eyes closed. When they touched him he jerked slightly, but that was it. He felt the cuffs around his wrists loosen and he dropped like a stone. He hit the ground with a soft grunt and curled into a ball. His shoulders _ached. _His whole body ached. He didn't even feel them release his ankles, but after the short time it took to blink he woke up in the corner of the room, completely unbound and curled into the foetal position.

He didn't know how much time had passed – he hadn't even realised he had fallen asleep – but he hoped it hadn't been too long.

**x**

It took them over three hours to reach the barn. To get to it, they'd had to turn off the car's lights and drive along a rutted, old back-road in pitch darkness. There weren't any stars either: it felt like a huge thunderstorm was brewing up overhead. The air was hot and heavy to breathe, and the tangy metallic scent of electricity seemed to crackle around them.

They had pulled up and walked the last half a mile on foot. In silence, they reached the overgrown yard of the barn. Thomson and Ivan split from the main group and, keeping low to the ground, scuttled over to the other side of the drive. They paused, counting to ten in their heads while they waited to see if they had been noticed by any guards, before disappearing from view entirely as they began to slip around the back of the building to secure the other door.

As soon as Ivan and Thomson had gone from his sight Müller began to count to twenty in his head. His gun was already in his hand, as was Thompson's, and now he caught the subtle movement and soft click as the Captain took his out of its holster. Müller hoped that Frankie would follow suit. It would be dreadful if he died in Müller's place. No Bavarian hero should have his wind stolen by a minor character as dull as Francis Haddock.

He reached twenty and they moved on again. Keeping against the wall of the building they made their way to the main door. Thompson and the Captain scuttled across so they were hunkering down on the opposite side of the door to Müller and Frankie, facing them.

They waited. The trees and bushes around them swayed in the breeze. A few minutes later, the silence was broken by the sound of a slightly-forlorn, slightly fake, hoot owl. Thompson cocked his head and held up his hand. They silently counted down from five before kicking the door in.

**x**

Tintin sat up and massaged his legs. He was aching all over, but he thought he could still move. He tried to get up, bracing himself against the walls of the corner, but his left leg seemed to go out from under him. He gasped as a sharp pain rattled through his knee, and sank back down onto his haunches. He took a few deep gulps of air until the urge to vomit had passed, and tried again.

_Sounds. _

His head came up instantly, his eyes narrowing into slits. If they turned on the light again, he wasn't getting caught like last time. He waited for what seemed an eternity, until he heard the sound of a bolt being thrown back and a key unlocking the door. The door was pulled open and light flooded into the cell. Tintin stood up, ignoring his knee – _the hell with it; it's just cramp. Nut up, Tintin! – _and positioned himself so that he was standing with his arms out, both hands resting against the cramped walls of the cell. He readied his body, and hoped he was strong enough.

Van Sant was there. In the doorway. On his own, too, it seemed. There would be men nearby, of course, but not _here, _and they could be dealt with separately.

"Well, well," Van Sant said. He smugly looked Tintin up and down as he took a step into the cell. "I thought you'd last much longer than thi" –

_Crack! Crack!_

_"Argh!"_

Using the walls as leverage, Tintin lifted his body off the ground and viciously kicked out at Van Sant as the man was slightly off-step and completely unsuspecting. Both his heels had connected with the Dutchman's face – one-two – in rapid succession. He keeled over, clutching his face. Tintin dropped down and grabbed the man's ankles. He hauled him into the cell, slamming the door after him. In the darkness, he managed to give Van Sant two extra punches to knock him out fully – _That's my reason why and I'm sticking to it, _he told himself grimly – before stealing his shirt. The trousers were just too big, and would hamper him in the long run. _Besides, _he thought, as he wriggled around like a contortionist in the tiny space Van Sant's fat body had afforded him, _it's long enough to cover everything important. Come on, growth spurt! We can do it! We can be six feet tall!_

_Give it up, man, it's never going to happen. _

_Not with that attitude! _

He grabbed Van Sant's gun, and headed for the door.

**x**

The man froze in a tableau of surprise. He was sitting on a couch eating a bowl of noodles. The fork was several inches from his mouth, which hung open, as he turned his head and stared at them in shock. Müller acted quickly. He stepped into the room and shot the man in the leg, making sure to clamp his gloved hand over the man's scream of pain.

"Bloody hell!"

It was an English accent, so either Frankie or the Captain. Probably Frankie, because the curse was boring, and the Captain didn't seem to be the kind of man that was new to violence. "See to him," Müller said, stepping away from his fallen enemy. The two detectives had brought a range of lightweight restraints with them. They had insisted on trying to keep as many people alive as possible.

He moved to the door and opened it slowly, peering carefully out in to the main room of the barn. It was a garage, and it was deserted. Over on the far side of the room was another door. He started warily across the open space of the garage, his only cover the small white van parked in the middle, joined quickly by Captain Haddock. The two headed for the door, breaking into a run when they heard a muffled gun-shot ahead.

Müller reached the door first. He ducked down and held the handle, and looked to the Captain. The Captain straightened up, a grim look on his face, and held his gun ready. He nodded silently and Müller flicked the door open. It swung back, revealing a small kitchen. Müller watched the Captain's finger tighten on the trigger, before relaxing.

"What the flaming hell have you done?" the man demanded. He put away his gun and strode into the room. Müller stood up and followed, with Thompson catching them up a moment later.

A man lay face down in what appeared to be a bowl of cereal. Judging from the wound in the back of the man's head, it wasn't just cereal anymore. Ivan stood behind the man, unconcerned. In the seat beside the dead man was another man, who was sitting completely still, his hands firmly in the air and a look of pie-eyed horror on his face.

"What?" Ivan asked innocently. "He resisted."

"No he didn't!" Thomson cried. You didn't give him _any _warning!"

"He was going to resist," Ivan confidently asserted. "I have good feelings about this sort of thing. Tell them, boss," he added to Müller.

"Jesus… I mean… Ivan…" For once, Müller was lost for words.

"Well, if they didn't know we were here, they know now," Thompson said with a sigh.

**x**

The corridor was dark. There were a great deal of doors. His cell was halfway down. He didn't know if that meant the ones beyond his cell were empty, or if they were full: there were no sounds. He could hear no screams, no crying, no moaning, no begging for help or mercy… there was nothing. Maybe it was all soundproofed. Maybe he was the only prisoner being kept here. He didn't know. He tried not to think as he trudged on, the only sound his own soft breathing and the slight drag of his bare feet against the hard, cold concrete of the floor below him. He reached the end of the corridor and found the metal stairs that went down to the next floor. There didn't seem to be anywhere else to go, so he carefully ducked down and, keeping an eye on the opening below, moved down towards the light. .

He came out in a wide, open space. The narrow metal stairs became a narrow, metal walkway that stretched the entire span of the open room. Tintin moved to the rail and peeked curiously over.

It was a long drop.

His eyes widened as he drew back. He would have to go the whole way down in order to get out. Luckily there didn't seem to be anyone around at the minute. He held the gun loosely at his side and used the rail to help guide himself in the semi-darkness. It was a long, long way to walk, but at least he didn't have to climb _up_ the stairs. He was actually quite surprised by this: for some reason he had assumed that it would be underground, but this looked more like a warehouse than anything else.

**x**

"They're probably being kept down there," Müller said, nodding to the wide trapdoor set into the floor of the barn.

The Captain hunkered down and examined the thick chain and padlock that kept the trapdoor closed. It was new, and looked to be made of good quality. "Something's being kept down there," he said uneasily. He looked up and nodded at Frankie, who produced a pair of bolt-cutters. To Müller's surprise, he still hadn't taken his gun out. Because of a fear of guns he'd walked into an armed building with only his bare hands for weapons. Either his balls were huge or he'd missed the point completely. His snipped through the lock quickly. The chain made a metallic slithering noise as the Captain yanked it impatiently away from the doors.

Thompson pushed forward as Müller and the Captain flipped the doors open. "I'll be as quick as I can," he said, as he started down the stairs. They watched him move cautiously and stealthily down – until his foot missed a step and he tumbled the rest of the way. "I'm ok," he called up weakly.

"Are you sure?" Thomson asked, leaning over the hole.

"Careful!" Müller cried. Arms pin-wheeling, Thomson regain his balance.

"Nothing to it," he said smugly as he turned around to face Müller. "I'm always extremely careful-_argh!"_ He took a step back onto empty air, and tumbled after his partner.

"I'm so glad we brought them," Müller said to the Captain.

"Shut it," the Captain replied. He started briskly down after the two detectives. "And come on: let's finish this."

**x**

The two guards looked at the computer monitor.

"Intruders?" one asked.

"Could be an escape attempt," the other replied uncertainly.

"Fuck it: let's just shoot 'em till they're dead."

* * *

**Author's Note:** The writer's block: it slowly shifts. Sorry for such a huge amount of time between updates. Happy Christmas/Holidays/whatever you celebrate, and have a great New Year.


	25. Chapter 25

**Twenty Five**

* * *

Tintin hunkered down behind a steel container and waited. He was in one of the few corridors that led off from the stairs and walkway. So far he'd had no problems, but the only person he'd encountered had been in a hurry and paying no attention to his surroundings, and it had been easy to duck into a corridor and hide until he'd passed by. But he'd been far more cautious since then, and had been taking the time to poke his head out over the rail in order to watch the stairs and walkway below him in case more people appeared. Now two more were coming – both men and both armed, and both paying more attention to what was going on around them.

Whether or not he'd been spotted was another story.

He held his breath as the sound of heavy boots on industrial metal got closer. Tintin stared at the wall opposite and held completely still as the footsteps stopped. A man said something, but it was too low to hear. Then silence for what seemed like an eternity, until the second man gave a scornful snort for an answer, and the footsteps moved off again.

Tintin closed his eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief. He stayed where he was, only relaxing when he heard their boots starting up the stairs to the next level. Then his limbs finally unloosened themselves enough to let him stand up. Moving slowly, he made his way back to the walkway and peered out of the corridor. The two men were already walking along the walkway on the opposite side of the huge, open space. In a few strides, they would be able to see him as clear as day if they turned their heads. He darted back to the steel container and, watching carefully, waited until they were gone from sight completely before hurrying back to the walkway.

Keeping an ear out for their footsteps, he started to jog as quietly as possible. The rails of the walkway weren't closed: he could be plainly seen and the thin poles and strips of metal that made the safety rail would provide no cover at all. It was too open. He needed to get off the walkway.

He didn't stop when his foot scuffed loudly against the metal. He heard a voice raised in surprise, then a shout of warning before the gunfire started. They were using machine guns, the bastards, the staccato stutter of bullets whizzed by him. He put on a burst of speed and dove into the next corridor, taking himself out of the range of their guns.

He dashed to the end of the stunted corridor, but the door was locked. The only other way out was back onto the walkway. Cursing his luck, he started back towards it at a run. _If I die here, _he thought grimly, _I'm dying on my terms. And I'm sure as hell not going down without a fight. _

**x**

Keeping low, he took the walkway at a run and tore along it, practically falling down the thin stairs down to the next level. The bursts of gunfire were gone, replaced with the sound of boots running flat out. He could hear the shouts of more men, coming from above and below, and if he turned his head he could see a few shadows already starting up towards him. He was on the third floor now.

It was a long drop to the central room of the warehouse. He could do it if he had shoes on, but he was barefoot and liable to break something if he tried it from here, so he put his head down and kept going.

He reached the steps and dashed down them, coming out onto the second level of the walkway. Ahead of him were three grim-faced men. Their guns hung from their shoulders by straps as they put their arms out and advanced on him, intent on taking him alive.

_Good luck with that! _

He darted to the side and, bracing his left arm on top of the rail, bounded over it. He dropped like a stone, instinctively taking a deep breath as he sailed down. He hit the ground feet-first and let his legs buckle as he curled into a roll, hoping to absorb most of the blow. For half a second his ears rang, drowning the surprised yells from above, on the walkway, but as soon as everything flooded back Tintin was up and on his slightly-sore feet with a whoop of triumph.

_I'm alive! Now run you fool! _

He took a quick look around: to his left was a double iron door that was slowly opening with a grinding, mechanical noise. From under the heavy steel of the door he could already see many feet and the beginnings of many pairs of legs. The main room itself appeared to be some sort of a loading bay, and was mostly empty bar a few shipping crates, but at the far right end there were a series of tall, steel doors that were wide enough for lorries and trucks to enter and leave by. And if they were entering and leaving by those doors, it stood to reason that the way out lay beyond them.

He made up his mind, and headed towards the doors. He ran to the first one and, darting from side to side, tried to find the mechanism that opened them. Over his shoulder, men with guns had dropped to their bellies and were starting to crawl through the considerable slit between the opening door and the ground. With a whine of desperation Tintin forced himself to look back at the doors and search for a way out.

_There! _

At the side of each door were two buttons: one green and one red. The green one had a black arrow pointing Up printed on it, while the red one had a black arrow pointing Down. It seemed clear enough. He reached up and slapped the green button, and the door slid open.

**x**

Ahead of them, the steel door slid open. Müller felt his breath catch – none of them had touched it. Someone on the other side of it had opened it. Thomson signaled frantically and they all dodged to the side of the thin corridor for cover. They hunkered down, their guns ready – and in Ivan's case, eagerly waiting – as the door opened fully and a man – yawning widely, his gun safely holstered – walked into the corridor.

"Hands up." Thompson was on his feet at once, his gun pointing straight at the man, who looked up in surprise, took one look at Thompson's gun and instantly put his hands up. Thomson appeared from the shadows and deftly patted the man down, removing a small pistol and a hidden knife secreted into a boot, before securely cuffing his hands behind his back.

"How many men ahead?" Thompson asked in a low voice as he hustled the man out of the corridor and upstairs to the main part of the barn.

"None," the man admitted hesitantly. His accent was English: west-end London if Thompson was any judge. "Where's everyone else?"

They came out of the trapdoor and he found everyone else: they were all sitting against one wall (except for one, long shape which was wrapped in a very bloody table cloth and lay near the back wall), with their hands firmly cuffed behind them.

"Here we are, sir," Thompson said blandly, ignoring the dark looks that were being sent his way. He led the man over to the wall and pushed him down into a sitting position. "If you'd like to wait here."

"Hey!" the man called as Thompson started to walk away. "What are we waiting for? Who are you with?"

Thompson ignored the question and started back down through the trapdoor. The others were gone from the corridor, so he made his way to the newly opened door and quickly found them again.

They were standing in a new room. All around them were doors with thin slits set into the wood at eye and foot level. Müller was opening up the eye-level slits and checking each cell.

"Not Georgie," he murmured as Thompson passed him by to reach Thomson.

"All secured?" Thomson asked.

"Of course. What's Müller doing?"

"Those are cells. He's looking for Tintin and the girl." They waited as Müller checked and rechecked each one, until he finally gave up with a frustrated grunt.

"We must ask the men," he declared.

"We've finished here," Thompson said at once, stepping forward towards Müller. The Captain and Frankie eyed them cautiously while Ivan wandered around looking through the slits to the doors and commenting on the occupants within.

"Too skinny," he decided, and moved on to the next one. "Too dark."

"We're not finished here," Müller said. "We haven't found Georgie. Or Tintin."

"We have secured the building and the prisoners: we're finished here. I'm sorry we didn't get the result you wanted, but there's nothing more we can do here."

"Yes there is: we can go up and put a gun to the heads of those men and force them to do what we want," Müller said in a reasonable tone of voice.

"This is a police investigation," Thompson replied.

"And I made it _very _clear I don't want a police investigation."

"And we did everything to make sure your name doesn't get out, sir, but this is _still _a police investigation. You and your… friend" – he gestured to Ivan – "can leave and we will do our best to make sure your name is never released to the public – although in Ivan's case it's still best that he doesn't leave the country or make travel plans for the next few months. But this is where the police take over." He unhooked his walkie-talkie from his belt.

Müller snatched it off him. "No, it isn't," he insisted. He held the button and spoke into the device. "Everyone can go home!" he said, before turning on his heel and making for the prisoners.

"Sir, that won't work: my colleague also has a walkie-talkie." Thompson hurried after him, followed by the others.

Thomson took his out walkie-talkie and spoke into it hurriedly. "Nobody go home: I repeat, nobody go home! Disregard last transmission: someone just lost their temper, that's all. Over."

The radio crackled into life as the sarge of the S.W.A.T. team radioed back: _"Bit unprofessional there, lads. Over."_

"Sorry sir, won't happen again. Building is secure: all units free to move in. Over."

"_Roger."_

"Thomson, sir, without a 'p'. As in trousers."

**x**

The door slid up, and Tintin found himself outside, under a muggy, stormy summer night's sky, in what had been the warehouses loading bay.

_Had_ been. Now it was a dump. Skip after skip, after skip, after skip, after skip - too many to count - each filled to the brim with... Clothes? Yes, clothes. Shoes of all kinds, from high-heels to running shoes to slippers and flip-flops; jumpers; t-shirts; jackets; trousers and jeans and skirts... Hundreds, no, thousands of outfits stripped from the youths and children Van Sant stole and sold, dumped and left to fester in giant, industrial sized skips. The sheer scale of the operation took Tintin's breath away and he made a promise there and then that no matter what happened he would end this: he would smash this organization. By hook or by crook, he would take Van Sant down and cripple the flow of evil that was glutting Europe.

But first, he had to get away.

He limped on, his bare feet stumbling on cracks and hidden stones, dodging into the maze of huge dumpsters. Most had over-flowed so he was mainly walking on a thick layer of uneven cloth and discarded undergarments. He could hear the shouts of men as his pursuers spread out behind him to search more efficiently. He needed to find somewhere safe to hide. If he could get into one of the skips, perhaps he could bury himself until they gave up searching here and expanded outside the warehouse's perimeter.

_If_ they gave up searching...

He put more distance between himself and his hunters and did his best to hide. The only real problem was that the skips were too bloody tall. He couldn't reach the top of any of them, couldn't jump high enough to reach the lip and pull himself into one. With the noise of the men growing closer and closer behind him he suppressed a frustrated growl and jogged on, now also searching for a pair of jeans and jogging shoes that looked like they could fit him.

There!

Not clothes that would fit, but a pile of clothes left leaning beside a skip. He picked up his pace and practically skittered up the pile like a monkey in his haste to reach safety. Half the pile slithered underfoot but he was too quick: with a desperate jump he seized the lip of the metal skip and hauled himself up and over the side. He tumbled headfirst into it, and landed on the dead girl.

The scream - he would later claim it was a manly shout - was pulled from his throat in complete surprise, fear and, he was ashamed to admit to himself, disgust. Her thin brown hair was plastered to her skull, her skin stretched tightly over her features, distorting them. Her lips were almost gone, a ghastly grin frozen on her face, and her eyes were already taken by the crows. He landed on her chest and something squelched and squirmed underneath his body. She was already decomposing - she'd been dead a few weeks at least - and the natural sacs holding her organs and vitals together had long since burst. The smell was rancid.

His second scream - he would never admit to this one; at least, not out-loud anyway. It still haunted him sometimes, in the dead of night - was one of pure fear. He had scrambled to right himself and to get away from her; to get the hell out of there, and perhaps his feet or hands had hit her a certain way, or maybe all of the sudden movement caused the pile of beneath them to shift, but somehow she turned her ruined face and stared at him with empty eye sockets.

He was out of the skip in a matter of seconds. He moved so swiftly, half-expecting her withered hand to reach up and drag him back, that he didn't spot the two men until it was too late. He dropped back onto the pile of clothes under the skip and rolled forlornly to a halt at their feet.

They grabbed him at once, dragging him up and twisting his arm behind his back until his shoulder ached sharply. One of them took a running jump at the skip and pulled himself up so he could see what had scared the fearless Tintin.

He burst out laughing.

"Looks like he found the one from last month," he said off-handedly as he dropped back down. "That's good: the boss was sure she'd managed to get away." He reached out and ruffled Tintin's hair teasingly, ignoring the teen when he recoiled from the touch. "Still, our record is intact: zero escapees. That might cheer the boss up, at least."

"And let's face it, he needs to be cheered up," the other agreed as he pushed Tintin on ahead of them, forcing him back to the warehouse. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, kid: Van Sant is bloody annoyed..."

**x**

Tintin stayed curled in a ball, his body aching. The kicks and punches had stopped for the minute and that was all he cared about. He could vaguelly hear a man's voice somewhere under the loud ringing in his ears, but he had taken a few bad blows to the face and head and he felt groggy and tired now. A small warning floated around his head - something about not falling asleep with a concussion - but he didn't care any more. If it gave him respite from this pain, he would take it. Even if it meant death.

Van Sant eyed the boy with malicious pleasure. He'd paid the insolent little shit back, with interest. _An eye for an eye,_ he thought, satisfied, as he gently fingered his own aching jaw. But enough was enough. Doctor Genezersen was right: it would take too long to break the boy, and Van Sant knew that he couldn't devote his time to it. It would be too challenging and time meant money. No, the best thing would be to kill the brat; remove him and the threat he posed and move on.

Van Sant felt a pang. With more time he could have earned millions just by pulling the trigger on the boy, but even the few days it would take to track down a few of Tintin's wealthier enemies and conclude negotiations were a luxury he couldn't afford.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to Tintin. "Take him upstairs and get him ready. I have a buyer in mind."

One of his men nodded and man-handled the boy to his feet.

"And give me your cell-phone," Van Sant added. The man handed over a plain, nondescript disposable mobile cell-phone before dragging Tintin away. Van Sant dialed a number from memory and assessed the boy's condition critically as it rang.

His face brightened when a familiar voice answered.

"Good evening, my old friend! How are you? ... Good, good. Listen to me: I have something you may be very interested in..."

**x**

Thomson hurried after the others, and caught up to them in the middle of a storming argument. Müller had dragged the young English henchman into the centre of the room and had him kneeling on the ground. In turn, Müller had placed his gun to the man's head, and the man had apparently wet himself and was in the middle of confessing to all the crimes the world had ever seen, including the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and Who Shot Phil Mitchell.

"You can't just _shoot _him!" the Captain was saying.

"Why not?" Müller asked, genuinely puzzled. "It will send a message to the others that I'm not in the mood for fooling around, and will encourage them to talk quickly. It saves time: it's _economical." _He looked around at them proudly.

"You're such a bell-end," the Captain marveled.

"_Please don't kill me! Please don't let him kill me!" _

"Blistering barnacles, you can shut up and all. Müller, put the gun down for heaven's sake!"

"I'm telling you, Captain, it would be much, _much _quicker this way."

"If you want, I can shoot him?" Ivan offered.

"I don't want anybody to shoot him!" the Captain cried.

"_Oh, dear God, listen to him! Don't shoot me!"_

"Quiet, you," Thomson snapped as he strode in. "Nobody's shooting anybody."

"_Thank you God! Thank you!" _

"The rest of the team are on their way here. I suggest you make good your escape, Herr Müller."

Müller cursed and turned away sharply. He was furious, and the urge to pull the trigger was almost overwhelming. "You called them in?" he demanded. "I told you not to!"

"And we told you this was a police investigation." Thomson cocked his head to one side and regarded Müller innocently. Behind him, subconsciously, Thompson mirrored the stance. "Were we not clear?"

"As clear as muddy water," Müller muttered quietly. He glared daggers at them. "I'll be at my club," he continued stiffly. "You can find me there if you have any answers."

"Don't get any ideas," the Captain warned him sternly. "Don't start thinking that you and the philistinistic philosopher there can take that warehouse in Eindhoven by yourselves."

"What did you call me?" Ivan asked suspiciously.

"Relax, it was a compliment," Müller lied. "Don't worry, Captain: I'm not as suicidal as you think. Besides, once the police arrive here and Van Sant realizes it wasn't a hit by a rival gang, he'll get rid of everything."

"What do you mean, 'get rid of'?" the Captain asked.

Müller shrugged. "Who knows what he'll do? He may sell everything off for quick cash, or he may dump them somewhere they'll never be found. I don't ask questions when the subject is raised: it's not anything I've ever had to do. Not yet, anyway. I mean, how does one make such a choice?"

The Captain stared at him, open-mouthed. "You awful… _disgusting… _Blistering barnacles! What a terrible, evil, _nasty _little man you really are!"

Müller raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?" he inquired.

"Seriously, how do you even sleep at night?" the Captain asked. "Thundering typhoons, I've met some nasty sods in my time but you well-and-truly take the biscuit! Are you genuinely asking us what's more important: the lives of people or money?"

"Captain, calm down," Thompson murmured.

"No! I have to give him a piece of my mind, by thunder, or I'll explode!"

At that moment, Müller's phone rang. It was in the pocket of his trousers. He looked down at his pocket and back up to the Captain. Slowly and deliberately, he took his phone out and held it up so he could see who was calling.

Both eyebrows shot up.

"I'm sorry to stop you in full-flow, Captain, but I must answer this call."

"You're kidding! If you answer that phone I'll shoot you myself!" the Captain snapped.

"I wonder, gentleman, if Mr Van Sant is as greedy as I believe him to be?" Müller asked innocently as he answered the call. "Van Sant," he said into the receiver as he eyed the Captain gloatingly, "how lovely to hear from you. How are you, my friend? ... Me? Oh, I'm fine."

Seething, the Captain yanked his hat off his head and stuffed the cap into his mouth to muffle his scream of frustration and anger. Müller gestured to him to be quiet. His smug face turned to one of amused surprise. "You have an interesting piece of merchandise for me? How pleasant. Can you tell me - … No, I see … I see. I'll be there as soon as I can … No, I'm in Amsterdam, in my club … Yes, of course, of course. I look forward to seeing you. Goodbye." He hung up and smirked at the phone. "What a truly greedy, stupid man. Gentlemen, I have to leave. I'm pretty sure I'm going to buy Tintin…"


	26. Chapter 26

**Don't forget to read the updated Chapter 25!**

**Twenty Six**

* * *

They were to meet in one of Van Sant's many brothels. Although the Captain hadn't been happy about it, Müller had elected to bring only Ivan with him for back-up, should he need it. It was risky bringing any of the others, he had explained in an attempt to sooth the man, who was fast losing what little remained of his temper. But the fact was that the Captain and the two detectives were too well known. The European newspapers - hell, the _world's _newspapers - loved the adventurous, moral, teenage reporter Tintin, and his scrappy, loyal little dog. He really was one of the most globally famous celebrities, and there was no way that three of his entourage would go unnoticed in Van Sant's hideout. And if they were recognised, Müller had no doubt that Van Sant would kill them all - including Tintin and Georgie - and disappear into the underworld to escape justice. If he was ever successfully prosecuted, Van Sant was facing a long jail stretch made worse by other criminals already locked-up, who hated him.

Besides, being invited to his brothel took away the element of surprise; the only thing that had helped them take the barn was the fact that nobody was expecting it. Van Sant would by now have gathered the rest of his men to him, and by the time the meeting with Müller took place he would have certainly heard about the raid on the barn. News of such a coup for the local police and Interpol would travel fast, and he would be wary that they were targeting all of his known businesses at the same time. The barn could never be traced back to him - he was far too clever for that - but he would be understandably wary. He would want the protection afforded by guns and vast numbers, and Müller would be outnumbered regardless of who he brought with him. Even if Lady Luck herself showed up and rode shotgun they would be screwed.

No, it was much better to go along with the guise of a legitimate business meeting, and hope to get out before Van Sant realised Müller was anything to do with the bust on the barn.

Eventually, the Captain had conceded the point. But Müller had to agree to one demand: he handed the keys to the office of _Valkyrie_ over to the Captain and promised to bring Tintin there. As he broke every red light and ignored every Stop sign on the way to Eindhoven, Müller had time to mull that over. Surely the Captain would want Tintin looked after, following such an ordeal as he was bound to receive at the hands of Van Sant. Therefore it would make more sense to bring him straight to a hospital, or even back to their hotel. Unless, of course, the Captain was trying to keep it quiet. A hospital and hotel have a lot of staff, after all. The newspapers and news shows would hear about it at once and the whole place would become a media circus, and a media circus during a discrete investigation would blow the whole thing open.

It stank of good P.R., and Müller doubted that it came from the Captain. _Clever little Tintin, _he thought to himself as he drove. _Covering your tracks like a true professional. I wonder how many 'incidents' really made it into the newspapers? And how many indiscretions have you thrown money at, to make them disappear? Are you burying them? Why? To protect your reputation and your public image? Just how squeaky clean is the squeaky clean reporter?_

He shook his head as he swung into a quiet street near Emmasingel. Close by, the impressive structure of De Admirant towered over the commercial shopping district, which was deserted at that late hour. Van Sant's brothel was extremely discrete: it was one of his most expensive, exclusive joints, advertised only as a 'gentleman's club'. It was strictly members' only and any potential member had to receive an official invitation before they could even consider joining. Müller, of course, had one in his wallet. He flashed the gilt-edged membership card at the glassy-eyed woman that greeted him at the door.

He and Ivan were admitted at once. Though they had both left their guns secreted in a hiding place in Müller's car they were still quickly and expertly frisked by one of Van Sant's men. As they were led through the inner club with it's impressive bar staffed by beautiful, under-clothed women, Müller was struck by how few of Van Sant's men were actually around. Usually, a few of them stood in the shadows, covering the exits while more stayed on the floor to make sure the girls gave nothing away for free and to over-see any negotiations that might take place. Tonight, though, a single, harassed-looking man in black was attempting to break up the women, who were clustered tightly at the end of the bar, muttering to each other as they chain-smoked and ignored their solitary guard.

Van Sant was spooked: he had to be. He would never have allowed the girls to stand idle when there was money to be made. _He knows about the raid,_ Müller thought to himself. _You knew he would. Stay cool and we'll all make it out of here alive. Maybe. _

**x**

Van Sant was found in a room on the second floor. The elegant hard-wood floors had been overlaid with an opulent rug that may have been real Persian, but Müller didn't get the chance to examine it too closely. The man himself was sitting on a leather couch, his arms stretched out along the back of it. His head was tilted back, a thick cigar clamped between his teeth. Thin tendrils of blue smoke made their lazy way up to curl and crowd around the expensive-looking brass light fixtures.

"You have money?" he asked without looking at his guests.

It had taken a lot of convincing, but the Captain had finally gone to an ATM machine to bank-roll this. Müller gestured to Ivan, who stepped forward. A briefcase hung from a chain, attached to his left wrist by a thick metal cuff. He unlocked it before flipping the case over and opening it so that its insides were facing Van Sant. Van Sant finally looked at them - well, at the money - and Müller did his best to keep his own face completely blank.

_The thing that most people forget, _he thought to himself, _is that predatory animals fight hardest when they are cornered. Even the lowly rat is at its most dangerous when it's backed into a corner. He may only be a child, and he may present an innocent face to the world, but Tintin was a hunter at heart. Van Sant had cornered him and Tintin had fought back. _

_Viciously too. Good boy!_

The fat Dutchman bore thin scratches across his nose and cheeks. His lip was crusted with a considerable amount of dried blood and when he smiled at the bundles of euros on offer Müller could see that two of the teeth on his bottom jaw were missing completely, while one of his front teeth on the top was cracked in half. At the smile, Van Sant winced and clutched at his mouth. His eyes narrowed and turned to Müller.

"You look..." Müller began, before trailing off. Lying to the man would be pointless, he realised. He blew out a noisy puff of air and shrugged helplessly. "I hope you gave as good as you got?"

"Oh yes," Van Sant promised, his eyes flashing cruelly. "How much did you bring?"

"Everything that was in the club," Müller lied. "Fifty seven. But if it's as good as you say it is" -

"It's fine," Van Sant said at once. "I want to sell this and be done with it. I've had bad luck ever since I acquired it."

Müller's heart started to pound a little harder. _Georgie? His luck turned to shit the second he took her. Oh, please, God, I ask you for so little..._

"I want you to take it and go," Van Sant concluded.

"Take what?" Müller asked cautiously. He reached out and snapped the briefcase shut, almost taking off Van Sant's fingers as he reached for the banknotes. "I don't even know what I'm buying," he pointed out.

Van Sant settled back and resumed sucking on his cigar. "Bring it," he said casually. One of his few men detached from the wall and disappeared out of a second door, one hidden in the elaborate paneling of the wooden walls on the other side of the room. Müller knew that the door led to a small room further in the building. Several of the bedrooms connected to that room via a series of hidden doors: Van Sant used it to move the younger children into the bedrooms discretely, when men and women of that nature visited here.

They passed the next few seconds in silence, with Van Sant happily sending plumes of smoke up to the ceiling. Eventually, the man returned. He dragged behind him a forlorn figure dressed in a stained shirt several sizes too large. The man pushed the boy into the centre of the room and forced him too his knees. Tintin stayed like that, his head bowed, until Müller approached him. He kneeled in front of Tintin and forced his head up, examining him. His face was left free of bruises, although his bottom lip bore blood and teeth marks - revenge for Van Sant's damaged mouth, no doubt, and there were thick bruises around the delicate skin of his throat. Müller silently tried to communicate with him to play along.

Tintin's eyes seemed to light up, and Müller's heart stopped with fear that the boy would give the game away, but he had doubted how clever Tintin truly was. The boy cleared his throat and spat in Müller's face. "Go to hell!" he croaked.

Müller recoiled and automatically raised his hand to punch Tintin, but Ivan grabbed his wrist. "Not here!" the Russian warned. "Take him somewhere safer and finish the job there."

"You are happy with the money?" Müller asked as he straightened up and used his handkerchief to wipe the spit out of his beard.

"More than happy," Van Sant replied. He had watched the scene with dispassionate eyes. "I did my best to break him," he continued, "but the results were unsatisfactory. Take my advice, Müller: take your revenge and kill him as soon as you can."

Müller nodded. "I intend to do just that. You have a back way out of here we can use?"

Van Sant nodded. "Your man can bring your car around the back; there's no way anyone can see him leaving here with you."

"Good. Ivan: go and get the car." Müller gazed down at Tintin, detached from the boy's obvious suffering. Tintin glared back malevolently, but made no move to escape.

_I think we're getting out of here alive,_ Müller thought triumphantly.

**x**

Captain Haddock wasn't a patient man. He knew it; he'd come to terms with it. He wasn't a bad tempered man, but he had a bad temper. There was a fine line between the two and the Captain straddled it triumphantly and wore it like a badge of honour. He was a genial, kind man who occasionally lost his temper, that was all. But there were times when the passion and the fits of screaming fell to prayer and waiting, and this was one of those times. He sat on the sofa in the office of _Valkyrie _and watched the many screens that lit up the wall above the desk. Below, the club was packed and people were having a great time. Young people and people old enough to know better; they were all dancing and drinking and laughing and talking, and it made the Captain sad to know that Tintin would never be among their number.

Not that he was dead. No, he wasn't. The Captain was sure of it. He was sure that if something that final had happened to Tintin he'd know; he'd feel it, the sundering of his own soul as part of it was taken away for good. No, he was alive, but he still would never live like the people on the computer screens lived. He would never allow his guard to be relaxed enough to live like that. And to the Captain there was a kind of sadness in that. Yes, he was pleased that Tintin wasn't the type of teenager to fall in drunk at night after spending his evenings tom-catting around town, but there was a sort of sadness to it too. Tintin would never experience the true idiocy of that time of life. It was a time of life where one could almost act like an adult but take none of the responsibility when it inevitably went tits up. Tintin had been taking responsibility since the day the Captain had met him. Hell, he'd probably been taking responsibility since the day he'd decided to skip childhood and become an adult.

_Proceed straight to Go. Do not collect £200. Do not collect your embarrassing memories of trying to drop the hand during a slow dance. _

He was jerked out of his idle thoughts as the phone on the desk rang. He stared at it for a minute, wondering if he should answer it when the choice was taken from him and it stopped ringing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, he lacked patience and had a bad temper, but at the minute both of those had fled and left him with nothing more than a small stirring of hope and wretched feeling of utter helplessness.

His mobile phone began to ring. He took it out and stared at the screen: he didn't recognise the number. He answered anyway.

"Hello?"

_"It's Müller. Where are you?"_

"I'm in your office. Very dark in here, isn't it?"

_"It's atmospheric. Go down the stairs and to the back of them. There's a door. Open it and go into the store room. At the back there's another door, you understand? Open that one too. The keys are in the bottom drawer of my desk."_

"Do you have Tintin?" the Captain demanded.

_"Yes, now let us bloody in!" _

The Captain did as he was told at once, hurrying down to the storeroom and hastily trying all the keys on the heavy silver ring until he found the right one. He wrenched the door open and found himself staring at the back alley behind _Valkyrie. _Müller's Jag idled, the engine dying as soon as the door opened and the Captain revealed himself. Moments later they were hustling a groggy Tintin upstairs while Ivan made sure that nobody saw them.

**x**

Tintin dozed on the couch, curled into a ball with the Captain's jacket over him like a blanket. He was aware of voices around him but he was too comfortable to move. Besides, there was no fear: he recognised the voices and the familiar scent of _Old Spice _and pipe tobacco from the material covering him.

"What happened to him?" the Captain's voice asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Müller replied. "He slept for most of the drive back here, and he wasn't very talkative when he was awake."

"That's a bad sign." The Captain sounded worried. "Usually he's full of talk when he's out of situations like that."

"He's been in situations like that before?"

"Well, not exactly like that, but you know what I mean. And there's blood on the back of his head. Should he be sleeping if he's got a whack on the noggin? Go on: you're the doctor."

"Well, _technically _speaking, no, he shouldn't_..." _

Tintin groaned and pushed the coat away from his face. He'd made a nice little hollow that was warm, and he didn't like leaving it. "Please don't talk about me like I'm not here," he said.

"You're awake?" The Captain's face hove into view. "Thank God for that! Are you alright, lad?"

Tintin sat up fully and blew out a noisy puff of air. "My ribs hurt... That's about it though. Everything else is superficial." He gingerly felt the back of his head, but when he examined his fingers there was very little blood on them. Most of it was dried into his hair by now. "I'd love a coffee," he added.

Müller gestured to Ivan, who was idling beside the door like a real hired henchman. The tall Russian gave his friend a wink and disappeared down to the bar to harass the barman into making a fresh pot.

"How's Daniel?" Tintin asked, looking up at the Captain. "Did he make it out alright?"

"Aye, he's fine, lad, don't worry about him. What about you? How are you?" The Captain squatted down on his hunkers and examined Tintin's face. "Did you get a fist to the mouth?" He pointed at the cut.

"Oh, no." Tintin waved it away. "That was when he" - he stopped mid sentence and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," he lied. "He punched me in the mouth. I broke his jaw, I think."

"Not quite," Müller said. He eyed Tintin carefully. "You managed to knock out two teeth, though, and it looks like at least another one will have to be taken out."

"Good," Tintin said darkly. He gingerly felt his own lip, his eyes growing distant for a second, before shaking himself back into the present. "I think I know where Georgia is." He frowned. "But I don't know where it _is, _if you see what I mean. He brought me to the warehouse where she is, but I don't know where it is."

"Eindhoven," Müller said at once.

"We went to the wrong bloody place," the Captain said with a snort. "That was some mighty find deduction there, Müller."

"My reasoning and logic was sound," Müller said stiffly.

Tintin looked from one to the other. "What are you two talking about?"

"We have some news of our own," the Captain replied, "and now we have an inkling where Georgie is too. You see, we found out that Van Sant keeps a few places near Amsterdam" -

Ivan returned with a tray containing a few cups and glass coffee decanter. Tintin signaled for the Captain to continue as he made himself a cup and settled back to listen to their story.


	27. Chapter 27

**Twenty Seven**

* * *

Tintin tapped gently at his Cupid's bow while he thought. Usually he tugged his bottom lip, but he'd tried that and ended up opening the large cut there. "He's going to run," he said slowly.

"We have some leeway," Müller reminded him. "We have at least twenty four hours breathing space before he realises I haven't killed you."

Tintin shook his head. "I'd estimate twelve: he knows we hate each other and there's no reason for you to keep me alive for twenty four hours. He'll be expecting to hear of my death first thing in the morning - well, later this morning - and when he doesn't he'll be wary. Add a few hours for him to find out what really happened out at his barn, and then he'll disappear. And if he goes to ground we'll never find him."

"So what do we do?" the Captain asked.

"You're _sure_ the warehouse is in Eindhoven?" Tintin said. He looked from Müller to the Captain.

"Do you remember anything of how you got to the brothel?" Müller asked for what felt the millionth time.

Tintin rolled his eyes again. "No, I swear to you. I was in and out of consciousness. I don't remember leaving the warehouse: I woke up in a room and a few minutes later I was brought out to you."

Müller tapped one long, slender finger on his desk. "I suggest that you would notice if you were travelling in a vehicle for a period of time."

"I don't know if I would," Tintin replied honestly. "I was completely out of it. I didn't notice much after... taking a beating."

"Do you remember a car? The trunk of a car? A dark place that rocked and sounded strange?"

Tintin shook his head on all accounts.

"Then, logically, he didn't move you a long distance the second time. The warehouse is about ten, fifteen minutes from the brothel where I picked you up," Müller said.

"We only have one chance," Tintin warned. "If we go in there and she's somewhere else, we'll never find her. He'll make sure of it."

Müller nodded. "I know. But do you have any better suggestions?"

"I think better when I'm wearing trousers."

"Thompson and Thomson are on their way," the Captain said. "They're bringing some clothes with them. Nice shirt, by the way."

"It brings out the colour of my eyes," Tintin replied absently. His ribs were aching. Müller had written out a prescription for a cocktail of painkillers - he still had several doctor's prescription notebooks, which Tintin was sure was illegal - but the only thing Tintin had agreed to take was a handful of Neurofen to dull the pain. "I wonder..." he stopped and thought furiously. "Is that boy, Rae, still in the hospital?"

"He is," Müller replied.

"I wonder does he know what Van Sant did to the love of his life?" Tintin asked innocently.

**x**

He needed a shower, but it would have to wait. As it was, he finally felt a little more like himself. The Thompsons had arrived with a fresh change of clothes and, dressed in his favourite blue hoodie and brown cords, Tintin felt refreshed enough to push on. He did manage to hustle a jug of warm water out of Müller though, and he used that in the office's small bathroom to wash the blood from his hair. Small bits still clung to the follicles in places, but he could get rid of those when he finally made it to a shower.

It was early - very early - and the sleepy nurse behind the A&E reception blinked at them in surprise as they trooped in. "Can, can I help you?" she managed to say.

"Police business," Thompson replied, flashing his badge at her.

"Oh!" Her hands flew to her cheeks. "I can fetch the attending, if you'd like?"

But they didn't answer her: Tintin ignored her completely as he headed into the building, following the stark white corridors around and up to the wards. Rae was being kept in a semi private ward on the second floor. When Tintin pushed the door open and went in, the young man was sleeping. He awoke with a jolt when the light was switched on.

"What's going on?" he asked muzzily, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"Veltje's dead," Tintin said. He grabbed a chair and set it down beside the bed, settling himself into it gingerly as his ribs protested the movements.

Rae's face crumpled. He screwed his eyes closed, but Tintin could see the tears leaking out. He may have been a complete idiot, and a selfish one to boot, but he had genuinely loved her. It was just unfortunate that she had also been a selfish idiot, and hadn't noticed the depth of his feelings.

"Get out," Rae finally said, his voice husky. "Leave me alone."

"I need your help," Tintin said.

Rae turned his face away. "Go away."

"Georgie will die too."

"I don't fucking care!" Rae howled, his grief spilling over. "Go away! Get out and leave me alone!" He burst into tears and hid his face in his hands. "Just leave me alone, for God's sake!"

Tintin stood up and put the chair back against the wall. He looked around. The second bed in the ward was empty; it hadn't looked like anyone had slept there. Over by the door, the Captain and the Thompsons shrugged.

"Doesn't look like we're getting anywhere with him," the Captain said gently. "Come on: we'll push on to the warehouse with the others." Müller and Ivan had waited outside, in the car, to make sure that their presence wasn't noticed with the two Interpol detectives.

Tintin stopped and turned back to Rae. The young man was huddled under the hospital blankets, hiding from them and the world in general.

"Do you know how she died?" Tintin asked. "Your beautiful Veltje? The woman you loved? Do you know what Van Sant did to her?"

"Go away!" Rae's voice was muffled.

"No. I want you to know what she went through - how she suffered in her final moments. I found her body, you know, and Van Sant told me himself what had happened to her. He tied her to a bed, and then he took her teeth out with a set of pliers, to stop her biting anything that was put in her mouth. What do you think was put in her mouth, Rae? Because she was tied to a bed in a whore house.

"She was destroyed. There was nothing left of her face, Rae. Her beautiful face. Do you remember what she looked like? Or has she started to become a memory to you already? Van Sant kept her there, letting men use her how they wanted. She begged for death. He recorded it all - he records all their screams, doesn't he? The ones he wants to break. He played it to me: she cried out for you over and over again, and when she finally died she was still calling for you to save her.

"There was blood all around her, when I found her. It had soaked through the mattress. There was a huge stain on the floor beneath her bed. He cut her, you see; he bled her over time. When she passed out he used salt and lemon juice to wake her up, and then it would start all over again: a new group of men raping her repeatedly before Van Sant got to work with his knife" -

"Stop, stop!" Rae sat up and pushed his hands over his ears. "Stop!"

"That's what she said," Tintin continued ruthlessly. "But they didn't stop, Rae, they kept coming, and he kept cutting, and she begged for death because she was so scared, and in so much pain, and now you're protecting the man that did that to her. You're going to make sure he goes free, no justice for Veltje" -

"Stop! What do you want from me?" Rae begged.

"You fed Georgie to him: where did he take her?"

"I don't know!" Tintin could read the lie in Rae's eyes: it hovered there, along with fear.

"Think, damn you! _Think!" _

Rae shook his head. "He'll kill me."

"I'll make sure he doesn't."

"You don't know," Rae said with a scornful snort. He wiped a bubble of snot from his nose. "He'll send someone else."

"I'll protect you. I'll make sure he never comes after you. Just tell me where he took her!" Tintin pleaded.

"What is this?" The door to the ward and the attending doctor appeared. "What's going on here?"

"This is a police investigation, sir," Thomson said, flashing his badge.

The doctor took the badge and examined it. "Interpol," he said. "Is this an official investigation?"

"Er," Thomson exchanged a look with Thompson. "Not _quite_,_" _he admitted.

"I can't help you," the doctor declared, thrusting the badge back at him. "Gentlemen, this is a hospital. You cannot come barging in, interrogating patients, for goodness sake!"

"We aren't interrogating him," Tintin said. He was eyeing the doctor curiously, and the Captain caught the look.

"That's right," Thompson said. "We were simply asking" -

"We were giving him some bad news!" Tintin said loudly, cutting across Thompson.

"That will have to wait," the doctor said stiffly. He kept his eyes on Thompson. "Visiting hours start at 10am, after morning rounds. You can come back then. For now, I'll have to ask you to leave." He opened the door and ushered them out. Tintin tagged along reluctantly. He cast a look back at Rae, who was hugging his knees and looking miserable as tears coursed down his cheeks. He didn't look up as they left.

"Are you alright?" the Captain murmured. Tintin was lingering outside the door to the room. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost," Tintin replied, his voice quiet. "But I think I know that man. Or rather, I think I know his voice."

The Captain frowned. "And?"

"I think... I think he was in the warehouse. Working for Van Sant."

"Are you sure?" The Captain looked surprised. "He's a doctor."

"So was Müller. But I know I've heard his voice: I remember it clearly."

"You were a prisoner: you were under a lot of stress," the Captain pointed out reasonably. "You might be mistaken."

"Captain, believe me; I know that man's voice." Tintin looked so earnest and firm that the Captain abandoned his doubts.

"Fair enough. So what do we do?"

"I don't know." Tintin drifted back to the door and peered through the thin slit of glass. It was chequered with black wire to prevent shattering. "I'm not even sure how I can prove - _HEY!" _He booted the door open and threw himself at the doctor, who was bent over Rae. "What are you doing to him?" Tintin wrenched at the doctor's arm, and an empty syringe flew out of his hand and embedded itself in the wall beside the Captain's head.

"Blistering barnacles! What's going on?"

On the bed, Rae had started to shake as convulsions took over. He gasped, a strangled fight for air, as the whole bed shook with him.

"Call for another doctor!" Tintin cried. He let go of the attending and leaned heavily on Rae's arms. "He's having some kind of fit."

The Captain reached over and hit a button above the bed.

"What was in the syringe?" Thomson demanded, grabbing the attending by the lapels.

"N-nothing," the man stammered.

"Tell me!" Thomson brandished his walking stick.

"There was nothing in it!" the doctor squeaked.

"Oh, God, he injected him with air!" Tintin let go of Rae and stood back. "It's not a fit: it's a heart attack."

_"Where the hell is that doctor?" _the Captain shouted. He rolled up his sleeves and started to hammer on Rae's chest, hoping to break his ribs and massage his heart back to life. Under him, Rae's eyes rolled manically as foam flecked his lips. He gasped loudly, gave one final shudder, and lay still. Seconds later, the trauma cart arrived.

It was too late.

**x**

"Spill it, Doctor Genezersen."

Thompson and Thomson sat at the doctor's desk. The man himself sat hunched and worried opposite them. Tintin and the Captain were by the door, making sure there was no escape.

"We know you are involved with Van Sant," Thomson continued. "You can tell us the extent of your involvement yourself, or we can start an investigation" -

"A very public investigation," Thompson added.

- "and find out for ourselves. What's it to be?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Doctor Genezersen said stiffly.

"You killed Rae," Tintin said. "Why?"

Doctor Genezersen kept his head turned away from Tintin, and ignored the question. "I want to speak with my solicitor," he said to the two detectives.

"Fair enough." Thomson and Thompson stood up. "We're arresting you on suspicion of murder, aiding and abetting criminals, kidnapping, child endangerment, false imprisonment, and child molestation. That last charge will probably be brought up to child rape."

"What!" Genezersen's eyes were like saucers. "You - you can't do that!"

"Yes, we can. Stand up, please, and turn around." Thomson flashed a set of handcuffs at the doctor.

"But I haven't done anything like that! I swear!"

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be taken into account." As Thomson continued reciting the Rights, Thompson hauled Genezersen out of his chair by his arm, and forced him to face the wall, his hands behind his head.

"But I didn't do that! I killed Rae, yes, but I swear I have nothing to do with any of the other stuff!"

"And can be used against you in a court of law, do you understand?"

"No! No I don't! I haven't done anything! Besides, that's not the real Rights! You can't do this!"

Thompson pulled Genezersen's arms down and cuffed them securely behind his back.

"You just admitted to murder, sir. I'd say that counts as something, wouldn't you?" Thompson almost looked cheerful as he spoke. "And as we said, our very public investigation will reveal the extent of your activities with your friend Van Sant."

"No! Wait! I'll tell you everything!" Genezersen looked at them desperately.

"That's a good sir," Thompson said, patting the man on the shoulder and leading him back to his chair. He kept the cuffs on, though. "Why don't we start with Georgia Haddock?"

"Who?"

Tintin scrolled through his phone and pulled up a photo of Georgie he'd taken from Danny. He passed it over to Thomson, who showed it to Genezersen.

"Oh! Her! I know her! She's in Eindhoven. I can draw you a map."

"Bingo." Tintin took his phone back, exited from the photo gallery, and quickly dialled Müller. "You can get the S.W.A.T. team?" he asked Thomson as the phone rang.

"Count on it," the detective replied. "We'll meet you there."


	28. Chapter 28

**Twenty Eight**

* * *

They entered the warehouse quietly, and in two small groups. The S.W.A.T. team took the front while a second squad, made up of members of the local drug squad and police force, entered through the dumping ground at the back, securing the loading bay quickly before both teams quickly swept the building to secure it.

At the same time, the Thompsons and a few hand-picked men, plus Tintin and the Captain, headed for the brothel in Emmasingel. To Müller's disgust, this was purely a police operation, and as such there was no place for him or Ivan in it. He told them he could be found at _Valkyrie _when it was all over, before driving away at top speed.

As Thompson and Thomson entered the brothel through the front door, the police arrested everyone that tried to go out the back. It was methodical and fast, with very little resistance given at first. They cleared the bar quickly before sweeping the second floor, where the bedrooms were. The girls were bundled into a police van, screaming and shouting about their rights, while their clients went meekly with their jackets over their heads, praying they wouldn't make the morning's news.

Thomson reached the third floor, but something in his gut made him stop. He hunkered down near the top of the stairs, with Thompson mirroring him a few steps down. They waited in total silence for a few moments. Tintin scurried up after them, keeping low and quiet.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Shh," Thomson said curtly.

They waited, Tintin straining his ears to hear what they heard. But there was nothing. He opened his mouth to say something when he heard it too: a small noise, like someone against a door. They were facing a gallery with three doors at the top of the stairs, looking back at them, and each door had a discrete spy-hole set into the wood at eye level.

"Go back," Thomson breathed.

Tintin went down two or three stairs.

"Further," Thompson hissed.

Tintin pressed his fingers to his lips, hoping to distract them, but it wasn't to be: Thomson curtly gestured to the Captain, who appeared out of the shadows and simply picked Tintin up by the waist and carried him back down the stairs bodily.

"Fire in the hole!" Thomson bawled, tossing something small and shiny onto the landing ahead of him. Three seconds later, the object burst with a loud pop, and clouds of thick, white smoke exploded into the air. _Now _the doors opened. There were shouts and bangs and guns went off, and the sound of running feet. Thomson and Thompson simply shot in the direction of the enemy guns, and heard answering cries of pain as they found their marks.

Within a few minutes - less than five - the smoke began to clear and the police moved in. Several men were lying injured, while the ones that had retreated inside were ruthlessly tracked and rounded up.

Van Sant was nowhere to be found.

**x**

In the warehouse, the S.W.A.T. team had met with little resistance and they too cleared each floor before moving up through the building. Van Sant had moved most of his men here, to guard the remainder of his stock, and they hadn't had time to set up properly. They had just jimmied open a crate of sub-machine guns when the S.W.A.T. team walked into the room and arrested them all. They were too shocked to put up much of a fight, and unloaded guns weren't that great when faced with armed ones. One man lay dead, a victim of his own stupidity, and the rest gave up at once.

Outside, Francis Haddock paced. He hadn't gone in with them: he wasn't allowed and he hadn't pushed the point. He suspected that his brother would have insisted, if the situation was reversed. He'd always admired his brother for what others called 'foolhardiness', but Frankie termed it as 'courage'. There was no doubt that Archie had changed, and for the better. He'd gained empathy and wisdom in almost equal doses, though his emotions led him more than his common sense.

He was a good man.

There was a shout from outside the warehouse and his head jerked up, his train of thought derailed; _"Hostages secured: they're coming out!" _

He almost ran forward and waited as the police wagons and ambulances threw open their doors to receive the stream of people that were coming out of the warehouse. Uniformed police officers helped young girls and boys - the eldest looked about 16, as far as Frankie could tell - out of the building and into the waiting safety of the vans. Some were worse off than others; starved and beaten half to death. Most bore wounds of some kind, all were frightened, and some had the blank faces and eyes that promised they would never be the same again, for good or for ill.

And then there she was.

_"Georgie!" _

She was the finest thing he'd ever seen. He didn't care that she was only wrapped in a blanket, that there were bruises all over her arms and legs, that there was blood on her face: she was alive and whole and safely in his arms again.

He held her for what seemed to be a lifetime. He hadn't noticed it until now, but there had always been an ache in his arms from her absence. He silently promised to resolve that, and hug her every day for the rest of their lives. She wept against him, her body shaking with relief and cold, and he couldn't understand a damn thing she was trying to say. But he didn't need to: she was safe and they were going home.

**x**

"They found Georgie," the Captain said as he hung up his phone. "That was Frankie: he's taking her to the hospital now."

"She's alive?" Tintin asked.

"Aye, still alive and kicking, God love her. Poor kid." He shook his head. "She won't get over this easy."

"You're telling me," Tintin said ruefully. "And I was only held for a day!"

The brothel was almost empty, with the last of the men being taken from it. A more thorough search would be done later, and they would find two little girls and a small boy hidden in the secret room, but for now Van Sant was their most pressing concern. The two outer rooms on the third floor were empty and devoid of any other exits, as far as they could see, but the middle one had a door set into wall, that was almost invisible against the garish wallpaper, and a window that led out onto the fire escape. The window was closed and the hidden door was open, and it all smelled a bit _too _easy to Tintin.

He tried the window: it was unlocked. Someone could have gotten onto the fire escape and simply shut the window behind them, unable to lock it from the outside.

"Check that passage," Thomson said, directing the police men into it. "What's up with you?" he added to Tintin.

"I don't think he's in there." Tintin opened the window and peeked cautiously out. Down below, he could see the lights of various police vehicles. There were a lot of people down there. He looked up, and saw that the iron steps led to the roof. He quickly swung himself out, with the Captain following behind him.

"Where are you going?" Thompson squeaked. "Get back in here, both of you!"

"Back in a second," Tintin said cheerfully as he headed up to the roof.

"I don't bloody believe this," Thomson groaned as he and his partner climbed out after their friends.

"This is absolutely the last time we let him come with us," Thompson said.

They exchanged a look as they landed on the iron fire escape.

"Well," Thomson conceded, "as long as it isn't his information we're acting on."

"Exactly. Fair is fair."

They headed up to the roof.

**x**

"Don't do it," Tintin said when he saw the fat Dutchman. His stomach churned in revulsion: Van Sant was evil and it disgusted him to be so close to the man again. But Van Sant was almost at the edge of the building, looking down at a long drop and - more importantly - the easy way out of trouble. He and the Captain moved slowly towards him, their guns carefully trained on him.

Van Sant turned at the sound of his voice and stared at Tintin blankly. "You?" he asked. "I thought Müller killed you. Stupid man: I hope he's in jail now."

"Why would Müller kill me?" Tintin asked. "I was the only one who could take you down and save Georgie: he's been helping me the whole time."

Van Sant's eye's widened in comprehension. "That rat!" he snapped. "That untrustworthy, traitorous rat-bastard! Bah! He is not an honourable man."

Tintin gave a short bark of laughter. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

"Step away from the edge, sir," Thomson said warily as he and Thompson made the roof. They advanced slowly, their guns levelled at their quarry.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me before I jump?" Van Sant asked, amused. "Deny me the right to kill myself, by doing it for me?"

"Yes," said Tintin, pulling the trigger.


	29. Chapter 29

**Twenty Nine**

* * *

_**Three Days Later**_

The Captain and Tintin were sitting the hotel restaurant, eating lunch. Well, they'd set out to get lunch, but once they realised that the chocolate cake was freshly cooked they'd ordered slices of that and were in the middle of pigging out. Snowy lay at Tintin's feet, initially sulking because he couldn't eat chocolate. But the waitress, who'd winked slyly at the Captain when she'd seen them, had dropped a large bone out to the dog, and now he was half way through chewing it to within an inch of its former life.

They'd had a call from Frankie earlier that morning: Georgie was being released from hospital and wanted to thank the uncle and adopted cousin she hadn't met yet, for saving her life. _Well, _Tintin thought, _for saving her from a terrible life, but nobody wants to mention that part of it. _To celebrate, the Captain had rented the suite next to theirs until the end of the weekend. The plan was to spend the time letting Georgie recuperate a bit more before they all went on their separate ways home. Frankie wanted to get out of Amsterdam as soon as Georgie was ready to fly, and Sunday seemed about right.

The Captain snorted with laughter, showering chocolaty crumbs over the table cloth. Tintin looked up, amused. "Are you ok?" he asked.

The Captain nodded and swallowed a mouthful of cake. "I was just remembering the look on the Heavenly Twins' faces when you shot Van Sant." His eyes glazed over and his face became happy. "It was magic, lad, I'll give you that. Sheer magic."

Tintin grinned and pulled the newspaper towards him again. He had to admit: it felt good to shoot the Dutchman. And the paper had the full story - minus Müller and Ivan's names - with a few choice photographs that Tintin had the presence of mind to take with his iPhone. The one that had captured everyone's attention, and adorned the covers of most of the newspapers in the days that followed, was a quick shot of Thomson leaving the brothel. He was holding a small child wrapped in a blanket. The child's face was covered - you couldn't even tell what sex it was - but it was a powerful image. Thomson, after all, was a rather soft-hearted creature when it came to children, and his anger and grief was clearly written on his face as he held the child close.

_Amazing Scenes in Eindhoven, _read the headline.

_Slavery Ring Busted, _read the by-line, before the article listed the rest of the facts about the case. He himself had thrown a quick article together the night before last, entitled _Our International Shame. _A half an hour after every major European newspaper had run it (making him a nice sum of money), he'd received a call letting him know he was up for another Pulitzer, and probably a Nobel Prize for literature if he ever chose to write a book about the case. Preferably before the end of the year, please. His agent was pushing him pretty hard on it, but it would keep. It was still only the summer, and he wanted to enjoy the little of it that was left.

God knew he deserved it.

"What do they have to say about it today?" the Captain asked.

"Van Sant's out of hospital and on his way to prison," Tintin replied. "He'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life, though."

"That's what happens when you get kneecapped. Can't think of a person who deserved it more." The Captain shook his head, grinning. "Their faces," he said with a happy sigh. "Van Sant's face. _Bang! _And down he goes!" He chuckled and helped himself to another mouthful of cake, toasting Tintin with his fork.

"Doctor Genezersen is singing like a canary," Tintin continued. "He was keeping notes too, sort of as insurance in case Van Sant ever turned on him. There's names, dates, descriptions of the people he examined... He'll cut a deal. He doesn't deserve it though," he added.

The Captain nodded. Tintin still hadn't elaborated on how he knew Genezersen and his voice, but from what the Captain had read in the papers, Genezersen had been the one to examine every youth Van Sant had kidnapped or bought. He knew exactly what was going on; where the children had come from and where they were destined to go, and what they were destined to be used for, but he had still participated. Now he had turned state's evidence his own crimes were being kept under wraps as part of the deal he had made.

"That's how it works," the Captain said gently. "You know that. It doesn't mean you didn't do a good job here."

"Not good enough. Genezersen won't be charged for murder - _manslaughter, _the Thompsons said, like he didn't mean to kill that boy Rae."

"He'll still serve some jail time."

"Bah! Four, five years. That's nothing compared to his crimes." Tintin frowned, his brow knotting together angrily.

"But they need him to testify: you know as well as I do that most of the prisoners we saved won't be capable of testifying against Van Sant. And the paper trail doesn't lead back to him. We need Genezersen to testify in order to put Van Sant in jail permanently."

"It shouldn't be like this. There should be justice, and this isn't it." He pushed his own plate of cake away half-eaten. He suddenly had a sour taste in his mouth. "I'm going for a walk," he muttered, getting up. At his feet, Snowy got up too, still carrying the gnawed bone.

"Don't be too long," the Captain warned. "The rest of them will be here soon."

"I'll be back," Tintin promised.

**x**

The dead girl in the dumpster was named as one Chloé Nelson, a twenty year old backpacker from Chicago, Illinois. Tintin received an email from her cousin, a young man named Logan Chester. They exchanged pleasantries, and Tintin did his best to reassure the man, but there was little he could do: Logan had lent her the money to travel to Amsterdam. He would always carry some guilt with him, regardless of how misplaced it was. Tintin knew _that _from bitter experience.

**x**

By Saturday things were starting to resemble normality. Tintin and Danny had left everyone in the hotel and headed out to the park to exercise Snowy and discretely watch girls. They passed an enjoyable afternoon and had wandered back to the hotel. They were in the lobby waiting for the elevator. It came slowly down to the ground floor and _binged!_ open. Georgie stepped out and looked from one to the other. She was wearing a baggy Cambridge sweatshirt and an old pair of jeans.

"I've been looking for both of you," she said. She had been quiet - understandably so - for most of the time. She sat for long periods in complete silence, staring at the television but seeing nothing, her mind dwelling on other things. Tintin had tried to close his ears to what she had endured, but he knew most of it. It would take a long time for her to get over what had happened, if she ever truly did, and she would be irrevocably changed for it. He hoped it made her a better person, more sympathetic and aware of the people around her.

"What's up?" Danny said, trying for enthusiasm.

"I want to go and meet Jörn," she explained. "I'm using you two as cover. They won't let me go out on my own."

"Do you blame them?" Danny asked.

"Why do you want to see Müller?" Tintin asked.

"I need to talk to him." She started off, walking by them towards the double doors that led to the street. "Come on: we're meeting him soon."

"Where?" Tintin asked with a groan. He had hoped to leave town without having to face that man again: he was another one that would completely escape justice. Granted, he hadn't _done _anything in this case but he had openly admitted to buying and using 'stock' purchased from Van Sant. He knew where those girls had come from too; he was just as culpable.

"I'm meeting him in McDonalds," came the answer.

**x**

Müller was sitting at a booth against the wall. He was facing the doors and the long, wide windows at the front of the diner. He wore one of his suits, but it was crumpled as though he had slept in it. His shirt was open at the neck and if he'd been wearing a tie that morning it was long gone.

He had a McFlurry waiting for her.

As soon as Georgie came in, he stood for her, his blue eyes losing their habitual coldness and lighting up for her. She went to him at once, they hugged; holding each other in silence.

"Back here," Tintin murmured. He took Danny's arm and guided him to another booth nearby. It was far enough to afford Georgie and Müller some privacy, but close enough in case Müller tried anything untoward.

Georgie sat opposite Müller, their hands almost touching across the table.

"You look beautiful," he said at once, his eyes searching her face.

"Flatterer," she said. She picked up her spoon and tried her ice-cream. "Mm. I thought about that night often." She looked up at him hopefully.

_This will hurt, _Müller told himself. _As the kids say: this is going to fucking suck. _"Get it out of your head," he said quietly, as gently as he could. "This can never work."

Her face crumpled. "I swear it, Jörn, I told them not to touch me. I begged them not to rape me, I didn't _want _them to but they" -

"Stop!" He looked around worriedly. Her voice had started to rise with her emotions. "That's not it! How could you of all people think I'd be as cruel as that?"

"That's how you treated Veltje!" The accusation burst out of her and lay between them like an open wound.

He had the decency to look ashamed. "I didn't love her," he said simply. He took her hand now. "They did this to you because of me: because I was getting to big for my boots and Van Sant wanted to take me down a peg or two. He took you to hurt me, and I can't let him do it again."

"He's going to jail," she pleaded.

"There will always be someone else like him," he replied. "With me in your life, you'll always be a target for some other scumbag piece of shit, and I can't do that to you. This is it, Georgie Hancock. This is our swansong."

She looked down, tears starting to pool in her eyes. "I don't want it to be," she whispered. "The thought of you, and my family... that was all that kept me going. That's what kept me strong."

"I'm sorry." He squeezed her hand once more and stood up, adjusting his jacket and shirt so that he looked more like a businessman. "Go back to Cambridge, Georgie Hancock. Or should I say Haddock? Go home and go to university. Put all this behind you and live your life the way it should. Find a man who will treat you like a queen, and take an army of lovers behind his back. Live for you, Georgie Hancock, and take the live you deserve." He made to walk away.

"You won't even say goodbye?" she asked, her tears coming in earnest.

He reached out and brushed one from her cheek. "Goodbye, Georgie Hancock. I wish you joy." He left then. She rested her head on her arms and started to cry.

**x**

Tintin followed him out, and caught him as he was getting into his red Jaguar.

"Hey!" Tintin knocked on the window and waited for it to open with an electric hum. He squatted down so he could talk to Müller face to face. "I'm not happy with your name being kept out of all this," he said, "but you did the right thing there. I know how much you love her, and I know it can't be easy, but it really is the best thing for her."

"You insufferable piece of shit," Müller said. He'd waited a long time to say this. "You inconsiderate, blind piece of shit. Look at you: you hold your personal morals like they're some badge of honour, and you insist that everyone around you live up to them. People aren't perfect, y'know? We're not infallible Gods, you self-righteous little prick, and you aren't the big I Am; the angel of justice with his flaming sword, smiting down those around you who fail to live up to your expectations. We're _people. _We fail: it's what we do. It's called Living. You should try it some time." He paused to put on a pair of shades.

"Go fuck yourself," he added for good measure before pulling away from the curb. He left a pile of smoke from his exhaust and a shocked Tintin teetering on his heels.

He rounded the corner and pulled over before his own tears blurred his vision.

**x**

Sunday came, and various Haddocks said various goodbyes before piling into their various cars. There were a few tears, lots of hugs and promises to phone and visit, and then there was the quiet of the Captain's car as the road opened up before them and they joined the motorway, Belgium-bound for home.

"So," the Captain said after about a half an hour. He was remembering their journey into Amsterdam. "How are you?"

"Fine," Tintin said. He thought for a moment. "Well, not fine, but I think I'm getting there. I'm tired," he added, surprised. He'd managed to get a full night's sleep last night. It was his first solid, natural eight hours for over a month and it had left him rejuvenated and strangely lazy. The end of the summer faced him; challenging him to fit a lot of fun into a short space of time.

"Well, that's good," the Captain said. "That's something, at least. Blistering barnacles, I can't wait to get home and put my feet up. That bloody Frankie had me up and drinking almost all night." He winced. He'd have to take another dose of _Unaddikt _when he got back to Marlinspike Hall.

"You know you don't have to quit," Tintin said suddenly.

The Captain almost crashed in surprise.

"I'm serious!" Tintin continued. "I wasn't being rational. I think I was just exhausted: I wasn't thinking straight. I mean, we have a really good alarm system, and Cuthbert has his panic button in case he has a fall or something, and Nestor's pretty on the ball."

"Try telling him he's not. Go on: I dare you."

Tintin laughed. "No thanks. He'd probably kill me, then spend the next few hours perfectly removing all the evidence."

"By thunder, if that man was moved to kill we'd never find out. He'd clean it all up too thoroughly."

"Exactly. Let's leave him as he is and point him at any burglar who dares to brake in and get mud on the rugs."

They shared a smile. "So I don't have to quit drinking, is the main point?" the Captain said at last.

"Not if you don't want to," Tintin said.

"I don't," the Captain admitted. "But I'm going to be smart about it: one every so often instead of lots all the time. How about that?"

Tintin grinned. The Captain would never do that: he lacked self-control and will-power, the two things needed for a heavy drinker to go cold-turkey and limit themselves. But he'd make a game go of it before Cuthbert took matters into his own hands and slipped him another _Unaddikt _pill.

"It sounds great to me, Captain."

**x**

The Captain pulled into the service station. It was just off the main street of Moulinsart village, across the way from the old Church. He opened and closed the door, and generally went about the business of filling up the petrol as quietly as he could. Tintin had fallen asleep shortly after their conversation, lulled by the gentle movement of the car and the low, steady beat of the songs that streamed from the radio.

It was good to be home, the Captain decided. It was getting late now and the blue of the day-time sky was bleeding into the red haze of the sunset. It would be another glorious day tomorrow. Maybe they could even take the boat out on to the lake. Maybe his luck would change and he'd finally catch the lazy old catfish that basked among the reeds on the western shore.

He whistled as he crossed the forecourt and entered the shop. There was a woman already at the counter, paying for a packet of cigarettes and a newspaper. The boy behind the counter, that fool whatshisname - Reno's youngest boy, the one that had left school early and now worked here, poor sod, while his mates all lived it up in university - couldn't take his eyes off her chest.

She turned to leave, and the Captain had to admit that whatshisname had good taste. Her chest was magnificent. She winked at him, before doing a quick double-take. "Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked in French, her accent Belgian. Local too, but with a bit of the south mixed in. She'd probably been working there until recently.

"Eh, probably not," he said, his cheeks starting to turn red. She was a very pretty woman, large chest not withstanding, dressed in a nice suit jacket with a short skirt that matched. Her legs were shapely and then he had to stop looking at her before he exploded in nerves. He talked a big talk, he knew, but his game wasn't as great as he led others to believe.

"That's Captain Haddock," said whatshisname, grinning cheekily. "Captain, you know the widow Rauff, don't you? This is her daughter, Cecily."

"Just back from the south," she added, offering him her business card. He took it. It proclaimed her to be a solicitor specialising in family law. It also had her mobile phone number on it. "My mother has just been diagnosed with dementia. I'm back to look after her. You should call me some time," she added.

"Guh," the Captain managed to say. He watched her walk away. It was enjoyable. She had what they used to call a chewing gum walk: Wrigley.

Yes, it was good to be home.

_**FIN**_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long, what with Christmas, New Years, various birthdays and vomiting children. I'm also very sorry that Windows 8 sucks, and its spell check is a bit crap. Good luck deciphering whatever spelling mistakes I couldn't catch, y'all! You've all been very patient while this was coming to its climax, and I hope the ending is satisfying.

Lots of this story got butchered in the editing process (such as stoned Tintin and the pizza scene, and a lot of Müller's best lines were removed because the scenes they appeared in ended up getting cut) and I'm tempted to re-write the whole thing from start to finish, making it a lot grittier and leaving the funniest scenes in, regardless of how gross they were. Something may or may not have happened to Tintin and is alluded to in Chapter 26. It will never be confirmed or denied: it's entirely up to your own imagination. You figure out how his lip got bitten, because I don't want to. Although it might make it into the re-write.

That would be a long time from now though. A very, _very _long time. Finishing this feels like finishing school, so if you'll excuse me I have some celebrating to do.

Happy Weekend, everyone!


End file.
